Patient File No. 7
I could no longer lie to myself that I was dreaming.
That morning, after seeing my reflection smile — a smile I hadn't made — I stood in front of the mirror for a while, motionless. I waited for it to happen again. It didn't. My reflection was just a reflection, following my every movement, with the same ordinary delay you always expect.
Maybe it was a moment of exhaustion. Maybe it was bad lighting. These were the things I told myself, while knowing none of them were true.
I didn't go to the office that day. For the first time in my career, I canceled sessions — all of them, not just Patient No. 7's. I told the receptionist I was sick. Maybe I really was — just not in the way she would think.
I spent the entire day in my apartment, curtains drawn, the previous Dr. Rostami's notebook open on the table in front of me, my mind circling back to that one sentence written thirty times: He smiles when I cry.
Near dusk, my phone rang. Unknown number.
I answered.
Silence. Just silence, and in the background, a very faint sound — the creak of a swing chain.
"Who is this?" I said.
I heard breathing, slow, deep. Then a voice — not exactly a human voice, but something trying to sound like one, with a strange delay between syllables, as if someone were only just learning the language:
"Hello... Doctor."
I hung up. My hand was shaking so badly the phone fell from my grip.
---
I don't know how I fell asleep, but I did. And this time, the dream was clearer than ever.
I was standing at the entrance of that same street. The bakery, with its light on. The park, with three swings swaying gently. And the sound of my footsteps on the asphalt, louder than they should have been.
This time, instead of stopping at the mouth of the street, I stepped forward and went in.
I knew I shouldn't. A part of my mind — the part still screaming that this was just a dream, just a dream — was trying to stop me. But my legs moved on their own, as if I no longer had control over them.
When I reached the bakery, I looked through the glass. It was empty inside. The shelves were full of fresh bread, steam still rising, but no one was behind the counter.
On one of the tables by the window, a notebook lay open. A notebook like the one in my hand, the one I had taken from Dr. Rostami's apartment.
I moved closer. Its open page, in handwriting I now recognized — my own handwriting — held a single sentence:
7:22. He always knows exactly when to return.
From behind me, I heard a voice. Soft, close, right at my ear:
"Welcome, Doctor."
I jolted awake, gasping, my sheets soaked with sweat.
My phone read: 7:22 in the morning.
Calendar: Monday.
---
That day, instead of canceling, I went to the office — because I thought perhaps the only way to understand the truth was to continue the sessions. I had to find out how much of this was real, and how much was just my exhausted mind.
When he came in, before sitting down, he stopped and looked at me — a long, searching look.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Did you call me?" I said, directly, without preamble. "Last night?"
He shook his head, slowly, no. "I don't have your number, Doctor."
"Then who was it?"
He sat down. He placed his hands on his knees, as always. But this time, for the first time, I saw them trembling.
"I think you know who it was," he said. "You just don't want to accept it."
"This is impossible. He... if he's real, if he only exists on one street, in a... in a time loop, or whatever it is — how could he call my phone?"
He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something in his eyes like genuine pity — the pity of someone who knows he is delivering bad news.
"Because you went into the street, Doctor. Even if it was only in a dream. And when someone enters — even for a moment, even only with their mind — he finds a way into the real world. A phone. A mirror. A door he knocks on three times in the middle of the night."
I held my breath.
"You went in, didn't you?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
I couldn't lie. I nodded — yes.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, there were tears in them.
"Then I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm truly sorry. Because from this moment on, you're no longer just a listener. You've become one of us."
Outside, through the window of the room, a cloud passed over the sun, and for a moment, a shadow fell across the wall — a shadow shaped like a man, standing, as if watching us through the glass.
When I turned to look, the shadow was gone.
It was just a cloud.
It was just a cloud, I told myself.
But I no longer believed it.
---
To be continued in Chapter Seven...