Chapter Four: The Specialist

The air in Dr. Maren’s office carried a faint trace of sandalwood and the soft hum of the heater. On a small side table, two miniature, ceramic pumpkins added a touch of seasonal orange to otherwise muted decor. Elias sat upright this time, shoulders squared, not slouched as he had been in last session.

Five weeks since Clara’s passing. A strange marker, as if grief could be measured by the calendar. In some ways it still felt like yesterday, her presence lingering in the quiet corners of their apartment. Yet in other ways, the weeks stretched long and heavy, as though he had aged years in that short span.

He was back at work now. Back at his desk, back to the motions of emails, meetings, the drone of normal life. Yet the rhythm felt foreign, like slipping into clothes that no longer fit. Colleagues spoke to him with a softened voice, careful around his silence. He nodded, he smiled when required, but inside the hollowness persisted.

Dr. Maren leaned forward slightly in her chair, a notepad balanced on her knee. Her voice was gentle, but it carried weight. “Elias, I wanted to ask—do you have any relatives you can lean on? Anyone you might reconnect with, to help carry some of this sorrow? With the holidays starting up, these times can often feel the most isolating.”

He hesitated. The question touched an emptiness deeper than grief, a wound reopened by the cheerful autumn colors. Last Halloween had already been shadowed by Clara's diagnosis. He hadn't wanted to bother with decorations or the stream of children, but she had insisted on a proper celebration. They were both non-believers, but she'd looked him straight in the eye and said, "We must always fight for reasons to celebrate life, Elias. Especially now."

He clasped his hands together, knuckles whitening, and finally met the doctor's eyes. “My parents were both Iranian Jews,” he said, his voice slow, deliberate, as if unearthing something long buried. “They fled after the revolution. Came here with almost nothing. My grandmother came with them too. She raised me, in some ways. But she died when I was two. I don’t remember her.”

Dr. Maren nodded, scribbling something quietly.

“I don’t know if I have family back there,” Elias continued. “Iran, I mean. If they even survived, if they’re even alive. My parents never spoke of it much. They wanted to forget. To start over here.”

“And now?” she asked.

He let out a humorless laugh. “Now they’re both gone. It’s just me.”

The silence lingered, not empty but respectful. Dr. Maren set her pen down. “That must feel… bereft.”

“It does.” Elias’s eyes dropped to the rug beneath his shoes. Patterns swam and shifted. “Clara was my only real anchor. Without her, I don’t know where I stand anymore.”

Dr. Maren let that rest for a moment before steering gently. “You mentioned in our last session that you’d been having dreams more frequently. Has that continued?”

His head lifted. “Yes.”

“And the dreams themselves—have they changed?”

Elias hesitates, then says:

“Yes. I’ve had these dreams since I was a boy. Always different. Always about losing someone—a face I didn’t know, a voice that faded the moment I woke. But since last week, since we spoke… it’s always her. The same woman. Every night. That has to mean something.”

Dr. Maren, reflecting: “Perhaps your mind has stopped scattering fragments and chosen to show you one story more clearly. Or perhaps… you are finally ready to remember.”

Her eyes softened. “The woman, she felt familiar?”

“Yes.” His throat tightened. He paused, then forced the words. “I don’t understand why it’s her and not Clara. But it’s not going away.”

Dr. Maren leaned back, folding her hands. “Have you done anything to explore these dreams further?”

Elias gave a faint, weary smile. “I tried. I went online. Forums, groups, places where people talk about past lives. Most of it’s nonsense. People claiming they were Napoleon, Cleopatra, Marilyn Monroe. Everyone seems to have been someone famous.” He shook his head. “Nothing useful.”

Her smile was small, knowing. “The internet can be like that.”

“I thought maybe I’d find someone who’d been through what I’m going through,” Elias said, frustration edging his voice. “But all I found were people telling stories that sound like bad novels.”

Dr. Maren tapped her pen lightly against her palm, considering. “There may be another way.”

Elias’s brow furrowed. “Another way?”

“I have a friend,” she said slowly. “He’s a professor at Boston University. Religious studies, with a focus on cross-cultural beliefs in the afterlife. He’s been studying reincarnation for years. Not from the angle of sensationalism, but with academic rigor. He also hosts monthly meetups here in the city, where people who believe they’ve experienced past lives come together to share their stories.”

Elias raised an eyebrow. “Like a support group?”

“In a way. More of a community,” she said. “I’ve attended a few myself, just to listen. Some stories are wild, yes. But others… some made me pause. Made me wonder.”

Elias shifted in his chair, uncertain.

“You don’t have to believe them,” Dr. Maren added. “But sometimes, hearing others can put our own experiences in perspective. It might help you to know you’re not the only one grappling with these questions.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Sounds a little… out there.”

She smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But you came to me, Elias. Something in you is searching. Why not give it a chance?”

Her words settled over him, not heavy, not pressuring, but quietly persistent.

After a long silence, he nodded. “Alright. I’ll try.”

Dr. Maren reached for her desk and slid a card across to him. “This is his contact. Professor Aaron Feldman. He’s leading the next meetup in a few days.”

Elias took the card. The name felt ordinary enough, but the idea behind it pulsed with something strange, something that tugged at him.

The library basement carried a trace of dust and old wood. A few paper bats and faded spiderwebs still clung half-heartedly to the pipes near the ceiling. A faint thrum rose from the strip lights overhead, casting a pale glow across folding chairs arranged in a circle. A dozen, maybe fifteen people filled the seats, voices murmuring with anticipation. Some were young, some old, a mixture of faces and accents.

Elias sat near the edge, his coat draped over the back of his chair. He kept his hands folded in his lap, eyes lowered, listening.

The stories unfolded, one by one.

A middle-aged woman in a red scarf claimed she had been a nurse in World War I, tending to soldiers in the trenches. Her voice quavered with drama as she described dying in a gas attack.

A wiry young man insisted he had once been Julius Caesar. The group nodded politely, though Elias bit back a scoff.

Another man swore he had been a Viking warrior, showing off a crude tattoo he claimed marked him since birth.

Elias listened, trying to keep an open mind, but skepticism gnawed at him. Too many of the stories sounded rehearsed, embellished, performed for attention. He felt like he had stumbled into a theater groupe rather than a gathering of souls.

Still, he stayed. He waited. He listened.

But the hour dragged on, and disappointment settled like dust. His dream was different. It wasn’t grand or glorious. It wasn’t about being famous. It was always about loss and helplessness. It hurt. And sitting here, surrounded by self-proclaimed emperors and warriors, he felt like a fool.

When the meeting finally ended, chairs scraped against the floor, voices rose as people chatted in little clusters. Elias stood, shrugging on his coat, ready to leave.

He was almost at the door when a voice stopped him.

“Mr. Shirazi, isn’t it?”

Elias turned. The man approaching was in his mid-fifties, tall, with graying hair and thoughtful eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. He wore a tweed jacket, the kind professors always seemed to own, and carried himself with quiet confidence.

“Yes,” Elias said cautiously.

The man extended a hand. “Aaron Feldman. I believe Dr. Maren told you about me?”

Elias shook his hand. “Yes. She gave me your contact.”

Feldman smiled. “I saw you listening tonight. Not speaking. That tells me you’re more serious than most.”

Elias hesitated. “I wouldn’t say that. Just… not convinced.”

“Good,” Feldman said, his eyes sharp. “Skepticism is a sign of honesty. Too many come here with stories they’ve convinced themselves of because it makes life feel grander. But you… you were listening differently.”

Elias felt a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe even hope.

“Do you have time for a coffee?” Feldman asked. “I’d like to hear your story. Not here, though. Somewhere quieter.”

Elias glanced at the exit, then back at Feldman. Something in the man’s tone carried weight, like he wasn’t offering small talk but an invitation into deeper waters.

“Yes,” Elias said finally. “I have time.”

“Good. Then allow me to lead the way,” Feldman said.

And with that, they stepped out into the night together.

The coffee shop was one of those places that had grown into the fabric of the city. Exposed brick walls lined with shelves of books, the scent of roasted beans soaked into the air like a second skin. The windows looked out onto Commonwealth Avenue, where a thick carpet of crimson and gold leaves lay scattered across the pavement, skittering and piling up with every gust of wind. Inside, warmth gathered in soft yellow light and the low murmur of conversation.

Elias sat across from Professor Feldman at a corner table. The professor had insisted on the spot, half hidden by a pillar, away from the bustle. A battered notebook lay beside his cup, as if he never traveled without something to write in. His tweed jacket looked even older under the café’s dim light, but his eyes carried a sharpness that cut through the coziness.

Elias wrapped his hands around his own cup, letting the steam rise against his face. He hadn’t drunk yet. The smell of dark roast curled up to his nose, rich but slightly bitter.

“So,” Feldman said, folding his hands, “you’ve been having these dreams since you were young?”

Elias nodded. “For as long as I can remember. Childhood, adolescence… always the same pattern.”

“And the pattern is?”

Elias let out a slow breath. “Loss. It’s always loss, and the feeling of helplessness. Every time, I lose someone I don't recognize. I can't name them, but they feel strangely familiar, like they are part of me. When they're gone, I don’t just watch them vanish; I watch myself fracture. And then, I wake up with the same emptiness...”

Feldman studied him carefully. “Did you ever have any recurring dreams?”

“Not until recently.” Elias shifted in his seat. “That’s what has changed. Since last week… it’s been the same woman, every night. The fire, the fighting. Losing her again and again.”

The words felt heavier when spoken aloud. The café chatter blurred around them, plates clinking, an espresso machine hissing. But Elias’s world narrowed to that table, to the professor’s steady gaze.

Feldman leaned forward slightly. “But before her, it was always different people?”

“Yes. The faces changed. Though the ending didn’t.” Elias shook his head, staring into the swirl of steam above his cup. “It’s like my dreams have finally chosen one story. Her story.”

Feldman tapped a finger against his notebook, thoughtful. “That’s important.”

“Why?”

“Because the mind doesn’t cling without reason,” Feldman said. “When something repeats, it’s because your psyche—or your soul, if you prefer—wants you to see it. To stay with it. It believes this one has meaning.”

Elias’s jaw tightened. “Meaning?”

“Think of it this way,” Feldman said. “Most of our dreams are fragments, noise, pieces stitched together. But when a dream stabilizes, repeating night after night… that’s not noise. That’s memory surfacing.”

Elias swallowed. The word memory stung. He thought of Clara’s face, fading from his mind like smoke, while the dream woman remained sharp and mercilessly present. He hated the betrayal he felt in that.

Feldman’s voice pulled him back. “Tell me, Elias. In all these years, you never had a dream with a different pattern? not even once?”

Elias thought for a moment, rifling through decades of restless nights. “No,” he said finally. “Never. I'm always stuck there, watching them disappear.”

Feldman nodded slowly, as though confirming a suspicion. “And while you’re awake? Have you ever experienced a flash of something else? A memory you couldn’t place? A detail from another life bleeding into this one?”

Elias shook his head firmly. “No. Never. Just the dreams.”

Feldman’s eyes flickered with something Elias couldn’t name—satisfaction, perhaps, or calculation. “That matters,” the professor said quietly. “Because what you’re describing is rare. Very rare.”

Elias frowned. “Rare how?”

“There are thousands of people who claim to have past-life memories,” Feldman explained. “You met many of them at the meetup. But ninety-nine percent of them are telling stories they’ve convinced themselves of. They’re searching for importance, for drama. They weave fantasies.”

Elias nodded grimly. He had felt that himself in the basement room—the performance, the hunger for attention.

“But then,” Feldman continued, “there’s the one percent. The few cases where the evidence doesn’t align with fantasy. Children who speak of places they’ve never been, names they should never know, skills they’ve never learned. Adults who dream of events that, when researched, correspond exactly with historical deaths.” He paused. “Cases modern science cannot explain.”

Elias felt his stomach tighten. He wanted to dismiss it, to cling to reason, but the professor’s voice carried no theatrical flourish, only conviction.

“And you believe I’m one of those cases?” Elias asked cautiously.

Feldman didn’t answer immediately. He took a sip of coffee, then set the cup down with deliberate care. “I believe you could be. The consistency of your dreams—the singular focus on loss, and now this woman—points toward something more than ordinary dreaming. You’re not inventing stories of grandeur. You’re haunted. That, Elias, I take seriously.”

Elias looked away, his throat dry. Haunted. The word fit too well.

“I know someone,” Feldman said after a moment.

Elias’s gaze snapped back to him. “Someone?”

“A specialist,” Feldman explained. “Not a professor, not a therapist. She’s… different. She’s spent her career working with people who have experiences like yours. Not the attention-seekers. The rare ones. The true ones.”

Elias’s heart thudded. “And she could help me?”

“She can help you understand,” Feldman said. “She asked me years ago to send anyone with your symptoms to her. She has methods of uncovering meaning. Patterns. Sometimes even memories beyond dreams. And you are quite lucky—She is in the States now, in New York City, as it happens.”

Elias leaned back, the chair creaking softly. The café noise filtered in again—the scrape of cutlery, a burst of laughter from a nearby table. The world felt jarringly normal compared to the weight of what Feldman was suggesting.

“Why me?” Elias asked quietly.

Feldman’s eyes softened. “I don’t know why specific souls are chosen for this. But I do know it’s not a random burden. It falls to those who feel things deeply—who form bonds that don’t break easily, even across lifetimes. The weight you carry is a testament to the love you’ve known.”

Elias rubbed his temples. “And this specialist… what would she do?”

“She would listen, and guide you toward accessing those memories more clearly.” Feldman’s tone was steady. “It will not be easy, Elias. Sometimes remembering is more painful than forgetting. But it may also free you from the cycle of loss.”

Elias’s chest tightened at the thought. The idea of freedom, of escape from the endless dreams, tempted him more than he wanted to admit.

“Who is she?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you her name,” Feldman said. “But first you must be sure you want this path. Once you begin, there is no turning back.”

Elias stared into his untouched coffee. Steam had thinned to a faint wisp. His reflection shimmered on the dark surface—tired eyes, drawn skin. Behind that reflection, a flicker of fire, a woman’s face, a scream he could never silence.

He closed his eyes. “Yes. I want to know.”

Feldman gave a small nod, as though he had expected nothing less. He reached into his jacket and slid a card across the table, just as Dr. Maren had done days before. Elias picked it up. A name. A number. No other details.

“She will be expecting you,” Feldman said quietly. “Tell her I sent you. And tell her about the woman in your dreams.”

Elias held the card, feeling its weight as though it were more than paper. It was a doorway. Perhaps even a key.

The café around them buzzed on, indifferent. But Elias knew the world had shifted again.