Clara Voss hated first sessions.
They always started the same way: the silence, the chair too far from the desk, the patient's eyes darting around the room like trapped birds.
This one was no different.
The man sat motionless, his hands flat on his knees. The medical report called him Adrian M., 32 years old, post-traumatic amnesia.
"Do you remember your name?" she asked, her voice professional, neutral.
He nodded slowly. "Adrian."
"Good. And do you remember what happened before the accident?"
A pause. His gaze lifted, precise. "No."
She made a note. Typical.
"But I remember you."
The pen froze in her hand.
"I've seen you before," he continued, his tone flat, factual, almost gentle. "In another place. You were crying."
Clara forced a smile. "That's impossible. We've never met before."
He tilted his head, studying her. "Then why do you sound so sure?"
The air between them thickened.
Somewhere outside the room, a door slammed. She jumped slightly, too sharply for her own liking.
"I think that's enough for today," she said, standing up.
But he didn't move. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"You used to wear your hair longer."
For a heartbeat, her throat closed.
She hadn't worn her hair long in over five years.
She told herself it was coincidence. That patients say strange things all the time. That it was her mind, not his, playing tricks.
But as she reached the door, Adrian smiled faintly, as if he could hear her thoughts.
"Don't worry, Clara," he said softly.
"It'll come back to you too."