Geneva, Switzerland – May 11, 2025

  "How are the nights, Kael?" Dr. Sophie Durand spoke softly in the quiet of her office. She sat across from him while keeping her legs crossed and holding a notepad whose corners were well-worn from repeated use. The room felt small with cream walls and a bookshelf nearby. A window let in morning light and the subtle scent of chamomile tea mixed with polished wood lingered in the air.

  Kael slouched in the armchair. His left shoulder remained stiff because of an injury from the convoy six months earlier. His fingers moved repeatedly over the frayed armrest: stitch, pause, stitch, a movement that seemed almost unconscious. "Rough," he said in a low voice while his eyes traced the bookshelf's spines. The book titles blended into a sequence: green, black, green. "The dreams keep coming. The road. The fire. And i find myself counting again."

  Dr. Sophie tilted her head. Her short brown hair caught the light as she spoke with a clear Swiss accent. "Counting what?" she asked. Her pen rested still and her gaze remained attentive. A plain silver ring on her left hand twisted slightly: ring, pause, ring, a detail Kael immediately noticed.

  "Shots," he responded. His words felt heavy and slow. "Five Shots exactly. It's in Jordan at night. The truck was rattling while Amir drove. He always talked about his tea; bitter stuff. Then suddenly there was a flash and everything went bright. Then fire was everywhere. I kept crawling and counting the shots. Five as i said, and when I wake up those memories are still there, and Amir's voice, gone." His throat tightened and the pain in his shoulder intensified.

  Sophie nodded while her ring caught the light. "Five shots," she said. "Your mind holds onto that number. It's like a pattern you can't release."

  Kael looked toward the window where Geneva's rooftops appeared gray under a heavy sky. He saw patterns in the tiles; row, break, row, something his mind created automatically. "Yeah," he said tightly. "I notice things. Sounds, shapes and pauses. Like how you always wait before saying my name." He regretted the observation as soon as the words left his mouth.

  Sophie listened carefully. "You're observant, Kael. That's a unique way of seeing. But it can pull you back to that road and make you feel you should have changed things. What happens when you wake up?"

  He swallowed while remembering Amir's thermos with its dented rim. "Like I let him down," Kael said quietly. "I saw the signs, i saw movements that seemed too off. I should have said something, should have warned someone. Amir..." His voice trailed off.

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  She paused to let the words settle. "You survived," Sophie said firmly. "That's heavy, but it's not a betrayal. You're here and starting something new today. Correct?"

  Kael exhaled. His fingers continued tracing the armrest. Surviving felt wrong to him. "A job," he said. The word sounded strange in his mouth. "UN work at the Palais about sorting data and records. It's a quiet work." It sounded empty, but empty felt better than remembering the fire.

  Sophie leaned back. "Quiet work sounds like a good place to start. Something you can focus on?"

  He shrugged while looking at her notepad. Its corners curled: curl, flat, curl, like a hidden code. "Maybe," Kael said. "Just old things waiting to be seen." The words felt heavier than he intended, carrying the weight of Amir's memory.

  "That's a good beginning," Sophie said. "Your mind sees what others miss. But don't let it trap you in the past. When dreams come, ground yourself. Name five things you see, four things you can touch, three sounds you hear, two smells and one taste. It pulls you back to the present." She glanced at her watch. "It seems we're out of time. Same time next week?"

  Kael stood and grabbed his backpack. Its canvas felt soft with fraying straps. "Yeah," he said while meeting her eyes; brown, steady, offering a sense of hope. "Thanks, Sophie."

  She smiled and stood with him. "One step, Kael. That's enough."

  He nodded and left her office. The hallway looked plain with scuffed linoleum and a cool metallic air. His boots made sounds; step, step then pause, as he counted tiles toward the exit: seven, eight, nine. The movement felt automatic, like breathing.

  Outside, Geneva felt cold. The air carried hints of wet stone and distant lake water. Kael pulled his hoodie tighter. Its gray fabric was pilling as he walked down Rue de la Paix. The city moved around him: a tram's hum faded while a woman's heels clicked: click, pause, click. The pavement's cracks formed a pattern similar to his thoughts. Each step sank into the ache in his shoulder.

  He stopped at a stone wall with a rough surface flecked with moss. Sophie's advice echoed in his mind.

  Five things he saw: the wall's gray color, a cracked tile, a sparrow's shadow, heavy clouds and his scuffed boots.

  Four things to touch: the cold wall, his worn backpack strap, his soft hoodie cuff and the smooth ID card in his pocket.

  Three sounds: a distant church bell, his breath and a car's hum.

  Two smells: damp stone and faint exhaust.

  One taste: the bitter remnant in his mouth, a memory of bread from Amman.

  It helped, a little. The memories softened while Geneva became clearer. He continued walking as the city's structure pushed against his inner chaos. The Palais des Nations rose ahead, its' white stone standing stark with motionless flags. Kael stopped and held his ID card, feeling its coolness while squeezing its edges to ground himself.