ELENA
The metronome was ticking again.
That steady, deliberate rhythm that Dr. Voss insisted helped center my recall—though half the time, I wasn’t sure if it helped or just made me hyper-aware of how fast my thoughts were spinning.
I sat back in the reclined chair, palms resting against the fabric-covered armrests, breathing slow and deep. The scent of chamomile and sage lingered in the air, steeped from the bowl of dried herbs smoking gently in a copper dish beside the window.
A thin curl of white smoke traced lazy circles above it—cleansing, Dr. Voss said, to open the mind’s memory pathways. Bundles of lavender and dried mugwort hung from the beams overhead, their fragrance mingling with a faint trace of sweetgrass.
A cooling stone rested in the hollow of each wrist, grounding my
