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Memory Maze
墨書 Inktalez
It was an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, and I was organizing the consultation records from the past week.
A decade of working in psychological counseling had instilled in me an almost obsessive habit—every visitor's information had to be meticulously formatted and archived, and the content of each conversation needed to be transcribed and filed within 24 hours. I even used different colored labels for categorization: blue for depressive tendencies, red for anxiety symptoms, and yellow for other psychological issues. This orderly approach provided me with a sliver of certainty amidst the chaotic fog of human emotions.
However, on this particular day, an unusual consultation record disrupted my usual routine.
"Strange, whose record is this?" I stared at the folder labeled "Visitor L" on my computer screen. The folder indicated it was from last Wednesday at three o'clock, but I had no recollection of that time slot. Habitually, I opened my planner to verify; indeed, there was a marked appointment during that time, but both the details and visitor information were blank. Even more puzzling was the fact that this empty appointment bore a gray label—a color I never used.
The October sunlight slanted into the Consultation Room, casting intersecting shadows on the dark brown wooden floor.
I shifted my gaze from the computer screen to the wall clock, where the hour hand pointed to three o'clock. An indescribable premonition made my heart race slightly.
I pressed the intercom to call in my assistant, Xiao Lin. When she entered, I noticed she was wearing a pair of black-framed glasses—seemingly new; the reflection from the lenses made her eyes appear particularly enigmatic.
"Do you remember the visitor from last Wednesday at three o'clock?" I tried to keep my tone casual.
"Ms. L?" Xiao Lin adjusted her glasses, wearing an expression of certainty. "She comes regularly, always at this time. Every time I pour her water, she insists on a cup of unsweetened black tea, and it has to be in that gold-rimmed cup."
I paused for a moment. There was indeed a gold-rimmed teacup in my Consultation Room—a gift from my boyfriend last Christmas. But I had always kept it locked away in the cabinet and never allowed visitors to use it.
"Regularly?" I frowned. "What kind of person is she?"
Xiao Lin opened her mouth but struggled to provide a specific description. Her gaze began to drift. "Well... she's about your height and always wears dark clothes... a particularly quiet person." As she spoke, her expression seemed distant, as if describing a vague dream. Suddenly, she added, "Oh right, she always sits by the window—that's where you're sitting now."
A chill crept up my spine. Instinctively, I stood up from my chair, only to catch a glimpse of a blurred figure in the reflection of the window—a woman dressed in dark clothing. I turned sharply, but there was no one behind me.
As a professional Psychologist, I prided myself on my keen observational skills and impeccable memory. I could vividly recall the expressions, tones, and body language of every visitor. Yet, regarding this "L," my memory was a blank slate, as if someone had deliberately erased it.
I forced myself to calm down and turned to check the surveillance footage on my computer. However, the clip from last Wednesday at three in the afternoon showed nothing but static, the image flickering so much that I couldn't discern anything happening in the Consultation Room. I immediately contacted the technical department.
"It might have been bad weather that day, causing signal interference," Xiao Zhang from tech explained casually. But I distinctly remembered that it was sunny that day; I had even opened the curtains in the Consultation Room to let in sunlight to help lift a depressed patient's spirits. Wait—wasn't I supposed to be meeting "L" at three that afternoon?
This contradictory detail made me feel dizzy. I opened my drawer and took out the Vitamin D tablets prescribed by the hospital. The recent work pressure had been intense, often leaving me dizzy; my boyfriend suggested I supplement with some vitamins. As I poured out a tablet, I suddenly noticed that the label on the bottle was slightly yellowed, as if it had been torn off and reattached.
That evening, my boyfriend came to pick me up after work. He wore a white coat, and his name badge reflected the clinic's lights. Noticing my troubled expression, he gently asked, "What's wrong today? Want to stop by a café? By the way, how about that place you mentioned last time?"
"What café?" My temples throbbed.
"You know, the new Retro Style place downstairs you said had unique decor and even a ginger cat." His description was very specific. "You mentioned their Tiramisu was special and that you always ordered the same flavor."
I had no recollection of such a café. What unsettled me even more was his use of "always"—implying that I frequented it? But I hated cats and never went to cafés that had them.
I instinctively looked around; on the wall of the Consultation Room hung a sketch of a building I had drawn casually. It was a structure with a Gothic spire, its lines rugged and melancholic. I had never examined this drawing closely before, but now it struck me as both familiar and strange. The sun was setting, casting long shadows from the building in the drawing, resembling a giant hand slowly reaching toward me.
"I'm feeling a bit tired today; I'd like to head home directly," I said as I gathered my things and locked up my office. Before leaving, I glanced once more at the mysterious folder labeled "L" on my computer screen. In the dim reflection of the screen, I thought I saw a blurred figure again. The outline sent a shiver down my spine, yet I couldn't pinpoint what felt wrong about it. Perhaps it was an illusion; the figure's posture resembled how I usually worked at my desk.
On my way home, I replayed all the strange occurrences of the day in my mind. As a Psychologist, I understood that memory could sometimes exhibit selective forgetting—a self-protective mechanism of the brain. Traumatic memories could be suppressed; painful fragments altered—these were concepts I'd read about in professional literature. But my intuition told me this situation felt different. That mysterious Visitor L, those lost memories, those dissonant details—they were like a carefully crafted puzzle waiting for me to solve it.
In the stillness of the night, I habitually organized my notes from the day. As I opened my notebook, I suddenly noticed a peculiar detail: all the consultations related to L were scheduled for every Wednesday at three in the afternoon. Did this time hold some special significance? My gaze fell upon the calendar on my desk, where next Wednesday at three o'clock was marked with an appointment: Visitor L.
The handwriting was mine, yet it appeared much more hurried than usual, as if written in a peculiar state. I struggled to recall the scene from that time, but all I felt was a throbbing pain at my temples. The light from the desk lamp suddenly became blinding; I reached out to dim it but accidentally knocked over the water cup on the table—the one with the gold rim.
The water spread across the notebook, revealing a line of faint writing: "Don't Trust Them." It was my handwriting, yet I had no recollection of writing those words.
I closed the notebook but caught a glimpse of my face in its reflective cover. In that moment, the face seemed unfamiliar, as if I were looking at a stranger. A ridiculous thought flashed through my mind: what if—just what if—I was actually the mysterious Visitor L?
The notion sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly turned on the lamp, its warm light dispelling the eerie atmosphere in the room. However, the feeling of being watched lingered. I stood up and walked toward the bathroom, hoping that cold water would help me regain my composure. The reflection staring back at me looked exhausted, with dark circles under my eyes. I leaned closer to the mirror to see more clearly—
Wait a minute, when did my clothes change to dark? This morning, I had clearly worn a beige coat.
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