I returned to the orchard the next day.
The same time. The same curve in the path. The wind carried the same scent of pine and distant woodsmoke. But Clara wasn't there.
The bench stood empty, half-swallowed by moss. The sister who had spoken with her the day before was tending a row of cold-weather herbs. When I asked about Clara, she gave a short shrug.
"She wasn't feeling well," she said. "Stayed home today."
I thanked her and walked back toward the village, though the road felt longer than before.
The next morning, I returned again.
Still no Clara.
This time, no one knew where she was. The orphanage matron offered a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "She must be visiting a friend," she said. "Or helping her father."
Each excuse was plausible.
Each a little too convenient.
By the third day, I walked the entire perimeter of the retreat grounds. Asked at the chapel. Sat on the bench near the orchard and watched the wind bend through the trees. But no glimpse. Not sound. Nothing.
That night, I dreamed of clocks ticking out of sync. Some too fast. Some pausing mid-click. I woke to a cold room and the faint feeling that I was forgetting something important.
On the fourth morning, I wrote in my journal.
I don't think she's avoiding me.
But something is.
The ink dried slowly. The window beside my desk had frosted over. I rubbed a patch clear with my sleeve and stared out into the gray.
Something was wrong.
Not with Clara.
With this village.
Later that afternoon, I wandered past the edge of the retreat. Past the sanatorium's gardens, past the road that led to the river. I didn't know where I was going. I only knew I had to keep walking. Something pulled me at the back of my mind like an unfinished sentence.
Near dusk, I returned to town. Cold. Tired. But less restless.
I returned to the boarding house just after dusk. My hands were stiff from the cold, and my coat clung damply to my shoulders. The hallway light flickered when I stepped inside.
I didn't write. I didn't eat. I sat by the window and watched the frost reclaim the glass.
The next morning, I boarded the early tram back to Berlin.
It wasn't a decision so much as a surrender. I hadn't seen Clara in days, and whatever quiet pull had brought me to Weißer Hirsch had gone still. If she was avoiding me, she had her reasons. If something else was interfering, I couldn't name it yet.
I arrived back in Charlottenburg by late afternoon.
Two days later, I scheduled another appointment with Dr. Eberhardt.
***
She welcomed me with the same polite professionalism as before. Her office was warm, lit by a low amber lamp that softened the sharp corners of the room. The ticking clock on the bookshelf was slower than I remembered—deliberate, almost hypnotic.
She gestured for me to sit. I did.
"You look tired," she said, her voice calm.
I hesitated. "It's been a strange few days."
She nodded. "Dreams again?"
"Something like that." I hesitated. "I took a trip. To Dresden."
Her brows lifted slightly, but not in surprise. "For what purpose?"
"I needed to find her… Clara."
She didn't respond immediately. Just watched me. Then, "And did you find her?"
"I did. We spoke. Briefly. It felt… strange. Like something about her was already known to me."
"Familiarity isn't always memory," she said. "The mind attaches meaning to patterns, to names, to faces. Especially when it wants answers."
"It didn't feel like a pattern," I said. "It felt personal."
She tilted her head. And how did it affect the dreams?"
"They've quieted," I admitted. "But not stopped. And the feeling hasn't gone away."
Dr. Eberhardt leaned back slightly. "Then perhaps Clara represents something unresolved. Something your mind wants to fix through recognition."
"Or maybe she remembers, too."
Her eyes stayed on me a moment longer. Then she picked up her pen.
"Memory is fragile, Matthias. And sometimes it protects us by refusing to return."
Her voice was gentle. Measured.
But I felt something shift in the room. A tension. Like she knew more than she was saying.
And had every intention of keeping it buried.