Semua Bab ECHOES OF THE PAST : Bab 221 - Bab 230

What is it?" Sarah asked, alarmed by my expression. "The car accident. I can't remember it. I know it happened, I can recall factual information about it, but I can't remember the experience. I can't remember dying." I tried other memories. The resurrection process. The first few days of being alive again, trapped in a body that felt foreign. The chronic pain establishing itself as constant companion. All of it was gone, leaving only intellectual knowledge without emotional or sensory content. "He took the trauma memories," I said, feeling something between relief and violation. "The experiences that created the pain. They're gone." Jamie was crying silently. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take your remembering. I just wanted to take the hurting." "Can you give them back?" Marcus asked desperately. "I don't think so," I said slowly. "If they're integrated into his consciousness now, they're his memories. Not mine anymore." "So you're free of them," Sarah said. "Isn't that good?

The first call came two days after Jamie. A shifter named Elena whose daughter could communicate with animals but couldn't stop hearing their thoughts. The constant mental noise was driving the child toward breakdown. "I heard through Marcus that you helped his son," Elena said. "That you understood what it's like to have abilities you can't control. Please, I don't know where else to turn." I gave her basic grounding techniques over the phone, suggestions for creating mental boundaries, resources for supernatural-aware therapists. By the end of the call, she was crying with relief. "Just having someone who understands, who doesn't treat my daughter like she's broken or dangerous, it means everything." The second call came the next day. A family whose son could sense death approaching, who'd become terrified of crowds because he could perceive who was close to dying. The third was a mother whose empathic daughter had stopped speaking because words felt violent compared to emoti

"The transfer is painless," Dr. Thorne assured. "They'll wake in comfortable quarters at our facility. Really, this is quite humane compared to traditional extraction methods." Elara was fading. I could see through her, see the wall behind her small disappearing body. She was still crying, still locked in place, being pulled somewhere I couldn't follow. Damian grabbed Dr. Thorne, or tried to. His hands closed on empty air. The man wasn't physically present either. "Consciousness projection," Dr. Thorne reminded him. "I'm quite safe from physical retaliation but the offer stands, Dr. Cole." He placed the business card on the table. "Call within forty-eight hours if you want access. After that, the extraction becomes permanent separation." The children were nearly gone. Transparent shapes that barely held form. Elara's eyes were still on mine, terrified and pleading. Then they vanished completely. The room erupted. Parents screaming, searching for children who were no longe

"Ask if they want to talk," Elara said. "Not tell them what I know, but give them space to share if they want to." "Exactly. Your abilities give you access to information people might not be ready to share. Consent matters. Their privacy matters." We practiced boundaries through visualization exercises. I taught her to imagine walls around other people's emotions, permeable enough to sense but solid enough to respect. To perceive without absorbing, to be aware without taking on the weight of everyone's feelings. "You can care about people without carrying their pain," I explained. "You can help them without fixing them. Sometimes the most loving thing is to let people feel their own feelings." The framework resonated beyond just Elara. Other parents in our diminished support group (seven families now, two having moved away entirely after the extraction) asked for copies of my materials. They were struggling with similar questions about their own children's developing abiliti

I flew out the morning of the funeral, telling Damian I needed to go before he could argue against it. He tried anyway."This is a mistake," he said, following me as I packed. "You're going to torture yourself with worst-case scenarios instead of focusing on helping Elara.""I need to understand what went wrong. If there were warning signs we should watch for, intervention points where things could have been different, I need to know.""Or you'll just confirm your worst fears and come home more terrified than when you left."He wasn't wrong, but I went anyway.The funeral was held in a small church in a suburb three hours north. I arrived early, sitting in the back, watching mourners file in. Mostly family and close friends, people who'd known Sophia personally. The supernatural community presence was minimal, just a few recognizable faces from consciousness research circles.The mother, Elena Reeves, stood at the front greeting people. Mid-forties, hollow-eyed with grief, moving thr