Lina never believed in coincidences.
Not because she believed in fate.
But because twelve years of working as a psychologist had taught her one thing – the human mind loves to find patterns even where none exist.
That’s exactly why she avoided them herself.
If three patients tell a similar story in the same week, it means nothing yet.
If five – it’s worth noticing.
If ten…
Then you start questioning yourself.
On Tuesday, the first patient was a seventy-four-year-old former engineer.
He hated dreams.
– Nonsense, – he muttered, sitting down. – The brain dumps garbage. Nothing more.
Lina nodded.
She never argued with a person during the first ten minutes.
– And yet you came.
– My wife made me.
He sighed.
– That dream keeps repeating.
– Which one?
– I’m walking down a street.
– Which street?
– I don’t know.
– Have you ever been there?
– Never.
– What happens in it?
The old man frowned.
– Nothing.
– Nothing?
– That’s the scariest part.
He fell silent.
Then added more quietly:
– It feels like something’s about to happen.
But it never does.
In the afternoon a sixteen-year-old girl came in.
She sat on the sofa with her hands tucked into her sweater sleeves.
– Mom says I have depression.
– And what do you say?
– I’m just tired.
– Of what?
– Of people.
Lina smiled faintly.
– Tell me about the dream.
The girl looked up.
– How did you know I dream?
– I didn’t.
A long silence.
– I dream about a city.
Lina picked up her pen.
– What’s it like?
– Empty.
– Completely?
– No.
– Then what’s in it?
– Windows.
– And people?
– I feel like they’re inside.
Only…
– Only?
– No one looks out through the windows.
The third patient was a police officer.
A big man.
Broad-shouldered.
He spoke in short sentences.
– I sleep badly.
– How long?
– Three months.
– Dreams?
He shook his head, irritated.
– I don’t know why you’re asking about that.
– Why?
– Because every doctor asked about stress.
You’re the first to ask about dreams.
– Answer, then.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
– I dream about the same intersection.
– What happens there?
– Nothing.
– What’s the scariest part?
– That I know…
He stopped.
– What?
– That I’m not supposed to go right.
– And you go anyway?
– Always.
That evening Lina stayed alone in the office.
The black notebook lay on the desk.
She turned to the last pages.
Next to each number were a few words.
City.
Empty street.
Windows.
Intersection.
Waiting.
She closed the notebook.
A minute later she opened it again.
This time she wasn’t reading.
She was drawing lines.
Arrows.
Connecting words.
City.
↓
Street.
↓
Windows.
↓
Shadows.
She froze.
The word “shadows” hadn’t appeared in a single one of the notes.
She had written it herself.
Without even noticing.
The next morning she decided to do something she normally didn’t do.
She pulled the old patient notes.
From last year.
The year before that.
Even older.
She was searching for one word.
Dream.
After an hour she had twenty-seven files.
After two – forty-three.
After three she noticed the first pattern.
The people were different.
Different ages.
Different professions.
Different beliefs.
Different traumas.
But almost all of them repeated the same phrase.
Not word for word.
In essence.
She closed the last file.
Leaned back.
The office was quiet.
She liked this kind of silence.
It made thinking easier.
The patient files lay on the desk.
She sorted them into two piles.
Dreamed.
Didn’t dream.
Then again.
Again.
After fifteen minutes everything still looked the same.
She took a sticky note.
Wrote down every word that kept repeating.
City.
Windows.
Intersection.
Silence.
Mirror.
Strange.
But not impossible.
Similar symbols appear in the collective unconscious.
She stood up.
Walked to the window.
Below, the evening flow of people streamed by.
Suddenly she realized something.
In twelve years of work, she had never once written down dreams separately.
She had always searched for their meaning.
Never – for the connections between them.
She went back to the desk.
Pulled a brand new black notebook from the drawer.
On the first page she wrote.
Recurrences.
Beneath the word she drew a single line.
And for the first time decided to stop looking for a diagnosis.
And start looking for a pattern instead.
That night at home she didn’t pick up a book.
She only transferred all the dreams into the new notebook.
Not organized by person.
By symbol.
After an hour the whole page was full of arrows.
Some symbols connected.
Some repeated.
Some kept returning to the same place.
Lina stopped.
In the middle of the page one empty circle remained.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then wrote a single word.
Unknown.
And for the first time in many years she felt a strange sensation.
Not fear.
Curiosity.
It had been a very long time since she’d encountered a question with not a single answer.