The days passed quietly, but my mind wasn't still. The found sketchbook sat on my desk, its edges worn and inviting, yet I hadn't opened it again. Something about it felt like a door I wasn't sure I wanted to step through.
I spent more time drawing in my own notebook, filling page after page with images of forests, faceless figures, and blurred scenes that felt half-remembered. Each drawing felt like a release, but also a question. What was I trying to say? And why now?
Mara invited me out again, this time to a bookstore she frequented. "I think you'll like it," she said over the phone. I hesitated, but the memory of our last meeting nudged me to agree.
The bookstore was tucked away in a narrow alley, its sign faded but charming. Inside, the air smelled of old paper and wood polish. Mara led me to the back, where oversized chairs and small tables created a cozy reading area.
"This place is special to me," she said, her voice soft. "I come here when I need to think."
I nodded, unsure how to respond.
She handed me a book with a plain cover. "Try this. It's not your usual thing, but I think you'll find it interesting."
I glanced at the title: Reflections in the Dark. Flipping through the pages, I noticed it was filled with short stories, each one accompanied by illustrations.
"Thanks," I said, slipping it into my bag.
Mara smiled, her eyes warm. "No rush. Let me know what you think."
Later that night, I sat in my room, the book in one hand and the found sketchbook in the other. After a moment's hesitation, I opened Reflections in the Dark.
The first story was short but vivid, about a man who wandered into a forest and became lost. The illustrations were haunting—shadowy trees that seemed to breathe, eyes peeking through the darkness.
As I read, I felt a strange connection to the story. It reminded me of the sketch I had shown Dr. Price, the faceless boy standing at the edge of a dark forest.
When I finished the story, I opened the found sketchbook again.
Flipping through the pages felt different this time, like I was searching for something specific. When I reached the sketch of the hooded figure in the rain, I stopped.
I studied the drawing carefully, noticing details I hadn't before: the faint lines of buildings in the background, the way the rain seemed to fall harder near the figure, as if the world itself was focused on them.
A thought struck me, unbidden: Who are you?
It wasn't a question for the artist, but for the figure in the drawing.
During my next session with Dr. Price, I showed her the book Mara had given me and the sketchbook I had found.
"I don't know why, but these feel… important," I said.
She examined both carefully, her expression thoughtful. "Stories and art are powerful mirrors," she said. "They reflect parts of us we might not recognize otherwise. What do you see in these?"
I hesitated. "The forest in the story—it feels familiar. Like the one I've been drawing. And the sketch… it's like they're waiting for something. Or someone."
She nodded. "Maybe they're reflecting something you're waiting for. Or something you're searching for."
I frowned. "I don't even know what that is."
"You don't have to know right away," she said gently. "Sometimes the act of searching is enough."
That night, I started a new drawing.
This time, I sketched the hooded figure from the found sketchbook, but I added something. Behind them, I drew the forest from the story, its trees bending and twisting toward the figure.
When I finished, I stared at the image, feeling a strange mix of unease and satisfaction.
Something was shifting inside me, though I couldn't say what.
For the first time in a long time, the darkness didn't feel like a void. It felt like a question—one I was beginning to think I might want to answer.
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