The room was dim, with light filtering weakly through slatted blinds, casting long, restless shadows. It was my last day as a doctor, though, at the time, I didn't fully grasp the weight of that reality. This particular session felt different, and heavy, as though the air itself carried a secret it was desperate to tell.
Hearing sessions were a peculiar part of my practice - a gathering of patients where each would share their burdens, their fears, and their truths. We would sit in a circle, an egalitarian arrangement designed to foster openness. But this session... this one would alter everything I thought I knew.
I introduced the participants to one another, using nicknames as I hadn't yet learned their real names. They seemed strangely familiar, though I couldn't place why.
Patient 3 started, his voice low and deliberate. "I'm the one that can give hope… or take it away." He looked at me, his eyes both searching and knowing. I didn't understand what he meant but felt an inexplicable unease as his gaze lingered.
Patient 2 followed. "I'm the one that has no time at all," he said, his tone colder, almost clinical.
Patient 1 spoke next, with an almost jovial air. "I'm the one that has too much time to spend." His grin felt misplaced, unsettling.
Then Patient 4 chimed in. "I'm the one that might be ugly or might be beautiful." His words hung in the air, opaque and disconcerting.
I stood frozen, unsure of what to say. Their cryptic introductions felt like riddles designed to unsettle, and they were working.