The Mark of Another’s Fear

Every few weeks, a strange pressure builds behind my eyes. It isn’t a headache. It feels like a memory that doesn’t belong to me. This began in early spring. I was watering my plants when a sudden, sharp dread filled my chest. An invisible weight pressed down, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I gripped the windowsill until my knuckles turned white until the feeling faded, leaving me trembling.

The next morning, I woke exhausted. A vivid dream lingered in my mind. I stood in a dusty courtyard under a pale sky. Three figures knelt before a stone well, their hands bound. A woman with long, dark hair was on the left, a boy no older than eighteen on the right, and another woman in the center. Their faces were hidden by shadows, not cloth. In the dream, the woman on the left and the boy were led away by a silent figure. The one in the center remained. Now, each time the pressure comes, I see that courtyard again, and I feel the dust on my skin.