The clinic waited in stillness.
Rain pressed against the frosted windows, each drop sliding down like a slow clock-hand. Ezra stepped in, late, dripping faintly from the storm outside.
A receptionist glanced up. "Mr. Graves? Doctor's expecting you."
He nodded, half-muttering, "Yeah, half an hour late after all."
The hallway smelled of paper, antiseptic, and coffee gone stale. At the far end, a brass plate read Dr. Ezekiel — Psychiatrist.
He knocked.
"Come in," came a voice-measured, soft, practiced.
Ezra entered. The office was simple: one couch, two armchairs, a desk lined with medical journals, a metronome ticking quietly beside a ceramic clock. The man behind the desk looked up-a calm figure in a charcoal suit, mid-forties, expression built of patience.
"Mr. Graves," the doctor greeted. "Glad you made it."
"Sorry. The rain decided to drown the city."
Ezekiel smiled faintly. "It's kind of what storms do." He gestured toward the couch. "Please."
Ezra sat. His soaked jacket clung to him like guilt.
The doctor waited for silence to settle before speaking again. "Your father said you've been having difficulty sleeping."
"Yeah. Something like that."
"Tell me about it."
Ezra hesitated, eyes fixed on the clock's slow pendulum. "I see things when I sleep. Places I've never been. People I don't know. Feels real enough to hurt."
Ezekiel made a small note. "Do you wake up disoriented?"
"Always."
"And outside those moments-any headaches, dizziness, sudden fatigue?"
"Sometimes. When it rains."
The doctor hummed thoughtfully. "Rain triggers memory and sensory pathways in some people. The sound pattern can provoke imagery."
Ezra looked up. "So I'm hallucinating?"
"I didn't say that," Ezekiel replied smoothly. "Dreams and delusions overlap. We explore them, not label them."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes steady. "Let's try something. Close your eyes for a few seconds."
Ezra frowned but obeyed.
"Focus on your breathing," Ezekiel said softly. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. If an image comes, don't fight it. Just describe it."
Ezra's breath wavered. Behind his eyelids, flashes stirred-water, smoke, a child's laughter muffled by thunder.
"Anything?"
"…Rain," Ezra murmured. "Always rain."
"And what do you feel?"
"Like I'm outside myself."
Ezekiel nodded, jotting notes with slow precision. "Derealization. Common in trauma patterns. We'll run a few assessments next session. I'd also like to start you on a mild stabilizer-nothing heavy, something to soften sensory load."
Ezra opened his eyes, grounding himself in the sterile room. "So… medicine and breathing? That's the cure?"
"Treatment," Ezekiel corrected gently. "Cure implies something's broken."
Ezra smirked. "You sure about that?"
Ezekiel's expression didn't change. "Quite. We'll learn what your mind is trying to tell you."
He scribbled a prescription, tore the sheet neatly, and handed it over. "Take one each night. They may bring dreamless sleep."
Ezra studied the paper, folded it into his jacket. "We'll see."
Ezekiel rose, extending a hand. "Same time next week?"
"Yeah."
As Ezra left, the metronome's tick followed him out the door—a sound too steady to be human.
Outside, the rain waited.
And the storm, once again, began to whisper.
"And if anyone did'nt understand the "Synopsis" means commment! so i will explain."
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