The rain didn't stop that night.
It whispered against the windows, steady and soft — like an old friend murmuring secrets. The house was quiet; Mira had gone to bed hours ago, or at least that's what Alden believed she wanted him to think.
He moved through the dark hallway soundlessly, his bare feet barely touching the polished wood. The faint light from the study spilt into the corridor — a single desk lamp illuminating papers, files, and a half-empty cup of coffee gone cold.
He shut the door behind him with a careful click and exhaled. The warmth he wore in front of Mira vanished, replaced by that meticulous stillness he carried at work. The Doctor was home again.
On the desk sat a leather-bound notebook, its edges worn and ink-smudged. The initials A.I. were carved faintly on the corner. He opened it to a page filled with neat handwriting and short, deliberate sentences.
Patient: M.I. (Mira)
Date: March 12
Observation: Subject appears increasingly anxious when left alone. Displays attachment dependency behaviour — mild at first, escalating recently.
Possible triggers: Isolation, rain, silence.
Notes: Morning agitation continues. Dreams re-emerging — references to "house," "tree," "fog," "blood," "night." Consistent with earlier fragmented recall patterns.
Alden ran his fingers along the margin, his jaw tightening slightly. His handwriting was precise — almost emotionless — yet the ink blot near the word blood betrayed the tremor in his hand when he wrote it.
He flipped to a new page, grabbed his pen, and began to write.
Addendum:
Behavioural shift detected.
Unscheduled absence from home during afternoon hours — denied upon inquiry. Mud traces near the entrance—possible exposure to external stimuli related to the former trauma site or associative figures.
If she has re-established contact with a past subject (ref. C.V. – Cüneyt Vural), memory destabilisation could accelerate.
Immediate measures: Continue observation. No confrontation.
Maintain domestic stability. She must not suspect surveillance.
He stopped writing, his pen hovering midair. The words must not suspect echoed louder in his head than the rain.
Slowly, he leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his teeth.
Alden closed his eyes, the soft hum of the lamp the only sound around him. He could still see her in his mind — Mira's trembling hands, her confused eyes, the way she clung to him as if the world would crumble without his arms around her.
And yet, something in her eyes tonight had been different. Not fear.
Recognition.
He opened the drawer, pulling out a small digital recorder. The red light blinked as he pressed play. Mira's voice crackled softly through the static — fragmented murmurs from one of her recorded therapy sessions:
"House… fog… blood… night… me… Alden… sunlight… home… warm."
He closed his eyes and let her voice fill the room, his thumb caressing the recorder like it was something sacred — or dangerous.
"She's getting closer," he whispered to himself. "Too close."
Then, with practised calm, he switched the recorder off, placed it back in the drawer, and locked it.
When he finally rose to leave, he paused by the door, glancing once more at the open notebook on his desk.
For a moment, he hesitated — then quietly tore out the page that mentioned Cüneyt Vural and burned it in the candle flame until nothing but ash remained.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.
Inside, the doctor smiled faintly to himself, the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes.
"Sleep well, my love," he murmured into the quiet. "Tomorrow, we begin again."