ELENA
The soft hum of Dr. Voss’s voice was like a current running under my skin—steady, focused, grounding. I let myself sink into it, the earthy scent of burning herbs drifting from the brass bowl on the table beside me. My hands were clenched in my lap, but my breathing had evened out, and my mind was open.
This wasn’t like the other sessions.
With Dr. Emmerich, I always felt like I was being pulled—dug into, as if someone was poking around my memories with a scalpel. But this…this was like following breadcrumbs left by my own heart. Dr. Voss spoke of memory as something sacred, something living and breathing.
Something that wanted to come back, if only I would stop trying to wrestle it into submission.
“I want you to picture the scent of the woods,” he said gently. “The moment jus
