"What you are describing, Mrs Wolfe, is called selective dissociative amnesia," the doctor said gently.
Kira and Jessica were sitting side by side in the quiet doctor's office at Aethelwulf Centralis. The room smelled faintly of peppermint and antiseptic. Soft morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting gentle stripes across the wooden desk.
She had just finished recounting the flashes—the hands on her throat, the shove on the balcony, the smell of kerosene. Talking about it felt like pulling shards of glass out of her chest.
The doctor, an older human woman with kind eyes and silver threads in her dark hair, had listened without interrupting. When Kira finally fell silent, the doctor leaned forward slightly and told her what her condition was.
Kira's brows furrowed in confusion at the clinical words. "Selective?"
