Now for something different.
The room carried a hushed warmth, its soft ochre walls absorbing the edges of sound. Shelves lined with books stood sentry—titles on trauma, cultural resilience, and the delicate architecture of memory—each spine a quiet declaration of its owner’s intellectual ferocity. Dr. Livia Crane sat poised in her chair, her body a sculpture of attentiveness. She adjusted her notebook on her lap as the door creaked open.
Rafe Anders shuffled inside, shoulders stooped, his movements careful and deliberate, as if every step might unravel him further. A battered leather journal was clutched tightly against his chest, a lifeline or perhaps a shield. His gaze flickered across the room—lingering briefly on the rows of books, the ceramic teapot on the low table, and finally on Crane herself. His eyes, dark and restless, carried the wear of sleepless nights and relentless searching. He stopped just short of sitting.
“Mr. Anders,” Crane began, her voice low and steady, like the first note of a song not yet composed. She gestured to the chair across from her. “Take your time.”
Rafe hesitated, his fingers pressing into the edges of the journal as though testing its reality. With a small nod, he lowered himself into the chair. For a moment, he said nothing, only stared at his hands, his knuckles pale against the dark cover of the book. Crane let the silence settle, an invitation instead of an interrogation.
“You’re here because of...her,” Rafe finally said, his voice rough around the edges. He didn’t look at her. “My wife, Alina. She’s—” His words caught, and he swallowed hard. “Gone.”
“I understand,” Crane said gently. “I’ve read the file you submitted. But I’d like to hear it in your own words, if you’re comfortable.”
He looked up then, sharp and wary. “What’s in that file isn’t...it doesn’t cover what’s really happening.”
Crane tilted her head, a subtle invitation to continue.
“I keep seeing things,” Rafe said, his fingers now drumming an uneven rhythm on the journal. “Not just memories. Other people’s lives. Their faces. Places I’ve never been. It’s like...like my mind is stitched together with theirs.”
He looked at her then, his gaze suddenly piercing, as though trying to measure her reaction. Crane’s face remained steady, an open field for his words to land. She nodded once, encouraging him.
“There’s a figure,” Rafe continued. His voice lowered, like a confession too heavy to speak aloud. “It’s always there, holding a thread. Glowing. Like it’s weaving...or unraveling. I don’t know.”
His words lodged in the air, their weight tangible. Crane’s fingers tightened briefly on her pen. The image he described resonated too closely with her recent dreams—a labyrinth of threads, a glowing figure at its center. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to remain grounded in the present.
“Do you recognize the figure?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.
Rafe shook his head. “No. But every time I see it, it’s like it’s pulling me somewhere. To places I don’t want to go.”
His voice cracked on the last word, and he fell silent, his hands tightening on the journal until his knuckles blanched. Crane watched him carefully, weighing her words.
“It’s not unusual,” she said slowly, “for grief and trauma to manifest in vivid, even unfamiliar ways. The mind works to process what we’ve experienced, often in symbols or sensations we don’t immediately understand.”
Rafe let out a short, bitter laugh. “This isn’t processing. It’s...invasion. Like someone—or something—is using my mind as a...a canvas. And I can’t stop it.”
Crane leaned forward slightly. “These visions you’re describing—do they feel connected to Alina?”
Rafe hesitated, then nodded. “I think so. But it’s not just her. There’s more. Faces I don’t recognize. Voices...so many voices.” He glanced toward the window, his gaze distant. “They all lead back to that thread. To the figure. Like it’s all part of some...some Loom.”
Crane’s breath caught, but she kept her composure. “Loom?” she repeated softly.
Rafe nodded, his expression troubled. “That’s what it feels like. A weaving, or maybe...a trap.”
The session concluded not long after, Rafe retreating with a muttered goodbye and the journal pressed tight against him. Crane remained seated, her notebook still balanced on her lap. As the door clicked shut, she allowed herself a single exhale, long and deliberate.
Her fingers moved almost automatically to the notebook. As she opened it, her eyes widened. There, on the blank page where her pen had rested, was a sketch she did not remember drawing—an intricate, spiraling weaving pattern. At its center, bold and scrawled in heavy ink, was a single word: Loom.
She stared at it, the faint echo of Rafe’s voice still lingering in her mind. It’s all part of some Loom. A trap.
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