Psychological fragments

Thursday afternoon was sunny and bright.

I arrived at the clinic ten minutes early. The elevator was empty, and the mirror reflected my slightly tired face—heavy bags under my eyes; another sleepless night. Since Lin Nian collapsed in front of me three days ago, I haven't had a good night's sleep. When I close my eyes, all I see is her fallen figure, those half-open eyes.

The elevator doors slowly opened, and the corridor was silent. I took out my keys, opened the clinic door, and stepped inside.

The waiting area was empty. Xiao Zhou hadn't arrived yet; she usually shows up at four o'clock. I checked the appointment records at the front desk. There were only two patients this afternoon: Lin Nian, who was scheduled for 4:30, and a regular client who was scheduled for 5:30, both there for marriage counseling.

Lin Nian.

This name evokes a complex mix of emotions within me. She has passed away, but her name remains—in the appointment book, in my memory, and in those files that have not yet been destroyed.

Police called her Zhao Min, a serial killer wanted nationwide. I tried to connect the name with the woman in the grey hoodie, speaking softly, but found it hard to match.

I put down my appointment book and went into the consultation room.

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a bright outline on the beige sofa. Just like that afternoon. I stood by the window, gazing at the sycamore trees below. The leaves were already thick and lush, a vibrant green. On the sidewalk beneath the trees, people were walking, waiting, or talking on the phone. Everything seemed ordinary.

Aside from the fact that she has passed away.

I turned and walked to my desk, sat down, and opened the blank consultation logbook I needed for today. I wrote the date on it, followed by the words "Lin Nian".

After I finished writing, I stared at the two words and fell into deep thought.

4:37. This time came back to me. Three days ago, at this very moment, she collapsed in the waiting area outside. When I rushed out, she was still warm, but her heart had already stopped beating.

The forensic doctor's preliminary conclusion was cardiac arrest, ruling out homicide. But Fang Jue said, "She's a wanted criminal, her psychiatrist is dead, and I'm the seventh."

I looked up, my gaze falling on the door of the archives room. The seven file folders were still there, 0723 to 0318, a chain of numbers, like some kind of code, waiting to be deciphered.

But I hadn't had a chance to unravel it yet. The police took the file away as evidence. Before leaving, Fang Jue said, "Dr. Shen, you'd better be careful these next few days. Call me anytime if anything happens."

Be careful.

Lin Nian also said this.

As I was deep in thought, the door was pushed open. Xiao Zhou poked his head in: "Dr. Shen, Lin Nian is here."

I checked the time: 4:10. She was twenty minutes earlier than the agreed time.

"Should we let her in?"

"Let her wait in the waiting area for a while," I said. "She can come in when it's her turn."

Xiao Zhou nodded and closed the door. I heard footsteps outside, followed by the sound of magazines turning.

I sat at my desk, staring at the clock on the wall. The second hand ticked away, making a soft "click-click" sound. 4:11, 12, 13.

I don't know why, but I'm particularly focused on time today.

At 4:25, I stood up, walked to the door, and pushed open the door to the consultation room.

She sat on the sofa in the waiting area, head down, a magazine in her hand, but she didn't turn the pages. The magazine lay open on her lap, her gaze fixed on a certain page, but I knew she wasn't actually reading it.

"Lin Nian," I said.

She looked up.

At that moment, I noticed that her face was paler than the previous week. The dark circles under her eyes were deeper, and her lips were somewhat chapped. But her eyes were unusually calm, a calmness that was somewhat unsettling.

"Come in," I said.

She slowly stood up, gripping the sofa armrest. The strap of her worn-out canvas bag left a shallow mark on her thin shoulder, and the bag swayed gently with her movement, the metal clasp making a very soft click, unusually clear in the overly quiet waiting area. She followed me into the examination room with her eyes downcast, her steps so light they felt like walking on cotton, almost inaudible as her shoes scraped against the non-slip floor. When we reached the boundary between light and shadow at the examination room door, she suddenly stopped, pausing for less than half a second, quickly glancing back at the waiting area behind her. That glance was as brief as a shooting star; her eyelids lifted only for a moment before falling back down. If my gaze hadn't remained fixed on her the entire time, I would never have caught that fleeting movement.

She then looked away, stepped into the consultation room, walked to the fabric sofa by the window, and sat down properly, even her seating position was exactly the same as the previous times.

I reached out and closed the consultation room door. The metal lock clicked shut, completely cutting off any outside noise. I turned and walked back to the single chair behind my desk, my gaze still fixed on her as I sat down.

"It's much earlier today," I said.

She nodded slightly, her head bowed, and squeezed out a single syllable: "Mmm." Her voice was so soft it was almost drowned out by the sound of the air conditioner.

"Is there something you need?"

She shook her head, a few stray hairs falling across her forehead swaying slightly, but she never looked up.

I watched her quietly. She was still wearing her usual smoky gray hooded sweatshirt, but a closer look revealed that it wasn't the same one she wore last week—this one was made of a softer material, and there was a small, dark brown stain along the edge of the collar, the edge already half-dry, like spilled coffee or soy sauce, washed once but not completely clean. Her jeans were the same, but the faded white marks from repeated rubbing at the knees were particularly noticeable, and the cuffs were frayed, showing that they had been worn for years.

"You don't look like you slept well," I said.

"Mmm." She still uttered that single syllable, her fingertips unconsciously rubbing against the knee of her jeans.

Still can't sleep?

She raised her head, nodded quickly, and then lowered it again, her jawline taut.

I didn't speak again, waiting for her to say something. But she just sat there quietly, her hands flat on her knees, her back ramrod straight, like a taut sculpture, even the position of her fingertips was exactly the same as in the previous consultations. The only sounds in the entire consultation room were the low hum of the air conditioner and the ticking of the clock on the wall, each sound striking the silence.

"Lin Nian," I softened my voice and spoke in the calmest tone, "if you don't want to talk, we can just sit here. If you want to say something, I'm here."

She finally raised her head, her gaze fixed directly on my face. I knew that look all too well—the same look in her eyes when she stared at me during our third consultation and asked, "Do you believe a person can be two people at the same time?" It was as complex as a tangled mess of threads, a mixture of confusion, fear, and an indescribable sense of disorientation, as if she wasn't looking at me at all, but rather through my body at something very, very far away, something untouchable.