Ezra finished the last of his breakfast in silence, a silence he told himself was enough. The warmth of family chatter lingered behind him as he stood up, appointment card in hand. Without another word, he climbed the creaking staircase to his room, the weight of the storm outside pressing through the glass windows.
He closed the door with a soft click, sealing himself away from the fragile comfort of his household. At his desk, he slid open the top drawer, revealing a battered leather-bound diary. The edges were worn, pages swollen faintly from years of ink.
Ezra took his fountain pen, uncapped it with deliberate care, and began to write.
(10/24/2014)
He scrawled the date at the top corner, the letters sharp, precise. Beneath it, he etched the memory: the harbor aflame, the laughter of the smoking men's, and the golden warmth of a family he had never known. Another dream that wasn't his. Another truth that wasn't meant to belong to him.
When the words were finished, he set the pen down, staring at the black ink bleeding into paper. The diary closed with a muted thud, as though it too carried the weight of his visions. He placed it back into the drawer carefully, like burying a piece of himself.
The walls pressed in with silence. Ezra exhaled sharply, pushing the drawer shut. His feet carried him toward the home gym at the far end of the house.
The meditation chamber was walled entirely in transparent glass, a sanctuary inside a storm. Within, his family's birds stirred - six parrots shifting in bright splashes of green and red, six pigeons cooing softly, and, perched apart on an iron stand, the harpy eagle, regal look and of it dead silent, its gaze sharp enough to pierce through him.
Ezra lowered himself to the mat at the center. With a flick of his phone, the room filled with low, resonant frequencies - meditative Hz's that thrummed like the heartbeat of the world.
Eyes closed. Breath deep.The chaos dulled. His mind, clawed raw by unending dreams, found fragile stillness. Minutes blurred, shadows untangled, and for forty-five minutes, the storm in his head bent to silence.
After he wind-up the meditation. He returned to his room, opening the closet. His hands chose a plain dark green full-hand T-shirt and black heavy-gauge joggers. A mask of simplicity for the Therapy clinic, nothing more.
He slipped the appointment card and his smartphone into his pocket, then took up his umbrella. Before leaving, he clasped the small golden compass watch - its weight cold and heavy, a reminder of direction and time even when none existed.
Downstairs, Rosey looked up from the sink as he moved toward the door."Take care, Ezra," she said softly.
He offered her a faint smile, the kind that never reached his eyes. "I'll be back, Mom."
The rain had not stopped. It hammered against the streets, soaking the city in grey. Ezra opened his umbrella and stepped into the storm, walking through crowds that hurried under chill haze and puddled asphalt.
His boots splashed, heartbeat steady.
Then-
A blur of motion. A child, no more than six years old, darted into the street, laughter ringing like bells. She collided with him, her small frame bouncing off his side before she toppled into a rain puddle, water splashing around her.
Ezra froze. His black eyes locked on her - this fragile spark of life, soaked in the storm.
Then it struck.
A sharp pain, stabbing through his skull like a blade of glass. His grip faltered; the umbrella slipped from his hand, crashing to the wet asphalt.
In the pulse of agony, fragments tore through his mind - fleeting glitches, blurred silhouettes.A girl.Another child beside her.Playing in the sunny park with his brother.
But their faces were smeared, unfocused, like a broken reel of film.
Ezra staggered, drenched, breath catching in his throat as the pain dragged him down. He slumped against the wall of a street shop, the storm swallowing him whole.
The storm beats louder and louder.