"Blue skies. That's what I remember. Skrylimpo-4's skies. Big, open. The clouds—fluffy and white, like someone painted them with soft brushes and too much time. And the Skimpock—those stupid purple birds. Flapping around with their long necks and ugly beaks. Not a care in the world. Free."
I pause. My eyes fall to the floor, tracing the grain in the polished wood.
"But then they flew away. No… more like the air shoved them. Like it didn't want them there anymore."
Dr. Meconly's voice floats into the silence—soft, careful. Like she's trying not to spook a wounded animal. "Very good, Mason. What else do you remember?"
My fingers twitch in my lap. I rub my thumbs together, trying to ground myself in the motion. "I don't know," I murmur. "My head's starting to hurt. Everything's… foggy. I can see the sky, and the clouds. The birds. But anything beyond that…" I gesture vaguely near my temple. "It's like this thick gray fog moves in. I try to look through it, and it just closes in tighter. Like it's hiding something I'm not supposed to see."
She hums—a sound halfway between encouragement and worry—and scribbles in her notebook. Her pen scratches like whispers against the page.
The air smells faintly of old books and hand sanitizer—clinical, but worn, like too many people have cried here.
"Yes, that's enough for today. Let's try again next session."
I nod, but my thoughts are still somewhere in the fog. "Okay…" I hesitate. "Hey, Dr. Meconly?"
"Yes, Mason?"
"What's the point of all this? These sessions... meetings... whatever they are?"
She looks up from her notes. Her expression is calm—professional—but not cold. "Your parents are worried. They say the nightmares are keeping you up. That you're struggling to focus at school."
"Oh." I look down at my hands. "Right. The nightmares."
A pause. She weighs something—whether to press. Then, in the same soft tone, "Tell me about them again."
I draw in a breath. "I'm in a field. Surrounded by these red crops… high up to my waist. Me and some other kids—we're lying back, watching the clouds float by."
The memory stirs a faint smile. "It feels... safe. Like nothing bad's ever happened. Like everything's how it's supposed to be."
"And then?" she prompts.
"I'm not there anymore." My voice tightens. "There's smoke. I can't see much—just heat. Red sky. The clouds are gone. All of them."
Her pen speeds up. "And the other children?"
I shake my head, throat dry. "They're gone too. I'm running. I think towards a city, but everything's on fire... Buildings collapsing... Screaming... I don't know what to do. I never know what to do."
She glances up. "You're crying."
I blink. My fingers brush my cheek—wet.
"I am?" My voice cracks. "I didn't even feel it."
Her blue eyes are steady. Calm. But there's something behind them—something I can't name. Pity? Worry? Maybe even fear. Like she knows something I don't, and she's afraid I'll find out.
"Mason," she says softly. "You know the nightmares aren't real, right? They're just bad dreams. Dreams that will go away."
I nod, because that's what I'm supposed to do. But the dreams don't feel fake. They feel like the only real thing I've ever known.
She closes her notebook and offers a small, practiced smile. "That's all for today, Mason. Good work."
I stand up slowly. My legs feel disconnected, like I've been sitting in place for hours and the world's moved on without me. The therapy room is too quiet. The lights buzz faintly, humming through the silence like something waiting to snap.
I push open the door.
The waiting room greets me with its usual blandness: off-white walls, a ticking clock that seems just slightly off-beat, and plasticky chairs that stick to your skin if you sit too long. There's a faint lemon scent in the air, like someone tried too hard to make the place feel clean.
My parents are sitting side by side, backs straight, eyes snapping up the second I walk in.
Well—my parents.
That's what everyone calls them. What I'm supposed to call them. They're nice enough. Kind, even. But I don't remember them. Not really. Not the way I remember the sky. Not the way I feel the fire.
They stand, smiling, expectant. But I'm not looking at them.
I see her.
A girl, maybe my age. Sitting cross-legged on the floor near the waiting room window, surrounded by a small pile of scuffed plastic blocks. She hums softly to herself as she stacks them, one on top of the other, building something crooked and lopsided. Her dark hair falls over her face like a curtain, and there's something about the color of her shirt—bright yellow, like the sun before it burns out—that catches me.
No. It's more than that.
Something deep inside me stirs—like a string's been plucked. Not recognition, exactly. But familiarity. A pull. I don't know her. I shouldn't know her. But I want to.
I tug on Dad's sleeve. "Can I… go play with her?"
He blinks, surprised. Mom gives a small, warm smile. "Of course, honey. Go ahead."
As I start to walk toward the girl, I hear my mother whisper behind me, "You talk to Dr. Meconly. I'll stay out here and keep an eye on him."
The office door clicks shut behind them.
The girl looks up as I approach, eyes wide and curious. They're green. Sharp and bright, like spring grass after a storm.
"Hey," she says, with a grin that's just a little crooked. "Wanna help me build a tower that reaches space?"