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VEIL OF SANITY—PROLOGUE
(A/N: I've been working on this for quite a while. I hope you enjoy it!)
The streets outside her apartment were quiet that evening. Rain pattered softly against her window, casting shimmering patterns over her study as she settled in with her notebook, the lamp casting a warm glow over her face. It was a rare moment of calm—she’d just returned from a long day of sessions, her mind heavy with the burdens of other people’s fears and secrets.
For Clara, silence was both a refuge and a curse. Her mind, trained to observe, to analyze, often couldn't help wandering its own dark alleys in moments like these. She tucked away her thoughts as best she could and began jotting notes on the clients she’d seen that day. Mrs. Langton with her intrusive thoughts, Michael Renaud struggling against crippling panic, and Eva, a young woman whose mind seemed shackled by a trauma she could barely articulate. They trusted and relied on her stability and composure, and she took that trust seriously.
Clara’s pen hovered as her thoughts drifted. Who helps those who heal? she wondered briefly, shaking the thought away. Her phone buzzed, a small light in the darkness, and she picked it up without much thought—until her heart lurched at the unknown number.
“Dr. Voss. I need you,” the message read. Simple, direct, and somehow suffused with a weight she couldn’t ignore.
A jolt of unease tingled at the back of her neck, but she tried to dismiss it. Unknown numbers and vague messages weren’t uncommon for her line of work. People often reached out in desperation, grappling for any connection, especially if they had no one else.
Still, as she looked at the screen, the phone remained strangely still in her hand, almost unnaturally so, as if the message itself had cast a spell over it. She typed a quick, professional response, her fingers moving out of practiced habit: "I'm sorry, I don’t recognize this number. If you’re in need of assistance, please contact my office during regular hours.”
She put the phone down, allowing her mind to sink back into work. But the words on the page seemed distorted, letters blurring, and her thoughts scattering. A sudden gust of wind rattled her window, and the lights...
The streets outside her apartment were quiet that evening. Rain pattered softly against her window, casting shimmering patterns over her study as she settled in with her notebook, the lamp casting a warm glow over her face. It was a rare moment of calm—she’d just returned from a long day of sessions, her mind heavy with the burdens of other people’s fears and secrets.
For Clara, silence was both a refuge and a curse. Her mind, trained to observe, to analyze, often couldn't help wandering its own dark alleys in moments like these. She tucked away her thoughts as best she could and began jotting notes on the clients she’d seen that day. Mrs. Langton with her intrusive thoughts, Michael Renaud struggling against crippling panic, and Eva, a young woman whose mind seemed shackled by a trauma she could barely articulate. They trusted and relied on her stability and composure, and she took that trust seriously.
Clara’s pen hovered as her thoughts drifted. Who helps those who heal? she wondered briefly, shaking the thought away. Her phone buzzed, a small light in the darkness, and she picked it up without much thought—until her heart lurched at the unknown number.
“Dr. Voss. I need you,” the message read. Simple, direct, and somehow suffused with a weight she couldn’t ignore.
A jolt of unease tingled at the back of her neck, but she tried to dismiss it. Unknown numbers and vague messages weren’t uncommon for her line of work. People often reached out in desperation, grappling for any connection, especially if they had no one else.
Still, as she looked at the screen, the phone remained strangely still in her hand, almost unnaturally so, as if the message itself had cast a spell over it. She typed a quick, professional response, her fingers moving out of practiced habit: "I'm sorry, I don’t recognize this number. If you’re in need of assistance, please contact my office during regular hours.”
She put the phone down, allowing her mind to sink back into work. But the words on the page seemed distorted, letters blurring, and her thoughts scattering. A sudden gust of wind rattled her window, and the lights...
