He left the café. The sun, still unforgiving, sliced through his eyes. The streets, a jarring mixture of car horns and laughter in the distance. He walked. Not now randomly. To the bus stop. To… home. The bus ride was long. The seats, uncomfortable. The air, thick with the scent of humanity. He stared out the window. Blurry faces. Passing buildings. A world in movement. He, a silent observer. Still a ghost. But a ghost nevertheless. With somewhere to go. Home. A trap. But a familiar trap. For now.
He remembered the visit. His mother. Had badgered. A therapist. "Just talk, Xing. Just talk." He had assented. Nodded. To assuage her worries. To buy himself time. Now. He had to go. One last hurdle. One last act. One last performance.
The therapist's office was in an old, quiet building. A small plaque, discreet. Dr. Chen. Psychologist. He walked up the worn stairs. His heart, a muffled drum. The waiting room. Empty. Only him. And the silence. A soft, humming silence. Like space. But here. It was… different. Sterile. Impersonal.
The door opened. A woman. Mid-forties. Gentle eyes. A kind smile. Too kind. Dr. Chen. "Xing. Please. Come in." Her voice. Soft. Welcoming. A trap. Or… just… a job. For her. Like mine.
He sat. On a plush. Too plush. Sofa. She sat. Opposite. In a chair. A notepad. In her hand. A pen. Poised. Ready. To capture. His broken. Words.
"How are you today, Xing?" Her voice, a gentle probe.
How. Am I feeling? How to translate. This. Emptiness. Into words? Into concepts. They. Can grasp. They. Cannot.
"Fine. Thank you," he said, his voice flat. A well-rehearsed response. The social lie.
She nodded. Wrote something down. "You sounded… distant. When you phoned to confirm the appointment. And your mother said… there were concerns."
Mother. Always. Concerned. A thick. Blanket. Of love. Smothering. Me.
"Yes. Problems." He paused. What to do? What to tell? The truth? The fantasy? The suicide? No. Too much. For this. Room. For this. Stranger. For me. "Work. Problems. And… well. Just. Life."
She leaned forward. Her eyes, still warm. "Life can be difficult, Xing. It sounds like you've been having a really difficult time. Losing your job. Breaking up with your sister. These are major stressors."
Stressors. Yes. Words. For the monster. For the void. Not the void. Just… words. Empty. Of meaning. To me.
"Yes. They are." He looked around the room. Paintings. Of peaceful landscapes. A small. Plant. On the desk. A clock. Ticking. Slowly. Time. Is running. Out. For what? For me? Or for this. Session.
"And your dreams? Your inner life? Your mother said you have a very vivid imagination. Do you retreat into it often?"
The question. It pierced. The surface. A tiny. Pinprick. He looked at her. Truly looked at. Her eyes. They held. A spark. Of understanding. Or. Was it. Just. Professional. Curiosity?
Escape. Yes. Always. Escape. The fortress. My world. My only. Sanctuary. From… this.
"My… dreams. Yes. They are… vivid." He chose his words. Carefully. Incoherent. Enough. To prevent. Clear. Meaning. "Sometimes. They are… the only. Reality. That makes. Sense. Battles. Fights. Against… things. That don't. Exist. Here. But. Are. So real. There."
She listened. Nodded. Wrote more. "It sounds like you use your imagination as a coping mechanism. A way to process difficult emotions, perhaps?"
Coping. Mechanism. A clinical. Term. For the bleeding. Wound. For the dying. Soul. Words. So small. For something. So vast.
"Perhaps." He closed his eyes for a moment. The poppy field. Aron. The transformation. The choice. Sleep. Or. Awakening. The power. The insight. Comes. From within. Not from. Her words. Not from. Her understanding.
He dreamed about Aron. In his mind. Walking. On the red poppies. Not just a guardian. A guide. A silent. Teacher. The poppy. Its extract. Not a remedy. But a key. For the transformation. He needed to. To initiate. Himself.
His eyes opened. Dr. Chen was waiting still. Her eyes. Patient. Expectant. She. Can't. Walk. My path. She. Can't. Fight. My demons. She. Can't. Give me. The answers. Only. I can. Find. Them. In. The darkness. In. The emptiness. And. In. The poppy.
"Dr. Chen." His voice. Was clearer now. Less. Fragmented. More. Intentional. "I appreciate. Your time. Your… kindness." He paused. Gathered. The words. The decision. "But. I don't think. I need. More sessions. Right now."
Her gentle eyes. Widened. Slightly. "Oh? May I ask why, Xing? We've only just begun. It's important to build a rapport. To delve deeper into what you're experiencing."
Delve. Deeper. No. She cannot. Not truly. Only. I can. Delve. Into my own. Abyss.
"No. It's… not that." He shifted. On the couch. A slight. Movement. Of revolt. "It's… I see. Now. That. The help. I need. Must be. From. Within. You. Can offer. Me. Tools. Words. But. The journey. The fight. It's. Mine."
She studied him. A long. Pause. Her warm. Smile. Faltering. A bit. "I see. Although I believe outside direction is crucial, I respect your stance. If you're ready to navigate on your own, that's a great leap. But know this, the door is always open."
Door. Open. Yes. A way out. Always. There. But I. Will take. A different. Door. A different. Path. Not the way out. Of life. But the way in. Into myself.
He stood up. The plush sofa. Released him. Slowly. He walked to the door. Dr. Chen. Still sitting in her chair. Still. Looking. At him.
He walked to the door. His hand. On the handle. He turned. Looked back. At her. A slow. Smile. Spread. Across his face. Not the forced. Social. Smile. Not the pained. Smile. Of despair. But something. New. Enigmatic. A private. Resolve. That flickered. In his eyes.
"Thank you. Dr. Chen." His voice. Was soft. But firm. "I will. Find a way. I will. Truly."
He opened the door. And stepped out. Into the cold. Indifferent. Sunlight. The street. Was still full. The noise. Still deafening. But something. Was changed. Within him. A tiny. Seed. Of a poppy. Had been planted. Not for forgetfulness. But for. Transformation. The journey. Was not finished. It had just. Begun. And this time. He would walk it. Not as a ghost. But as. Xing. Slowly. Painfully. But. Xing.