12.
“Well, the reason I think so is not important.”
“…Then what is?”
“What matters is what I am about to ask of you, Doctor.”
The woman’s voice dropped, as if sharing a confidence, and Dr. Sigmund found himself leaning in, his attention snagged despite himself.
“You are from Derland. You came to Grandcen last year and opened this clinic.”
Having claimed to have a request, the first thing she did was recite his history—private, sensitive information that no stranger should possess.
“You fled Derland because the academic atmosphere there aggressively rejects the use of hypnosis in neuropsychiatry.”
“…Have you been investigating me?”
He couldn’t hold the question back. The woman replied with a faint, tight smile.
“I am simply letting you know that if you grant my request, your own needs can also be met.”
“What do you want? If it is anything illegal, I will refuse without hearing another word.”
“Do not worry. Here in Grandcen, it is neither illegal nor the sort of thing that invites scorn.”
The woman paused, letting the silence hang before she spoke.
“I want to erase memories through hypnosis.”
In that moment, Dr. Sigmund became convinced that this meeting, which had dragged on for fifteen minutes, was an exercise in bad luck. He should have anticipated as much from the moment she walked in dressed for a funeral.
Nevertheless, driven by the dual compulsions of scholarly curiosity and his duty as a healer, he could not help but ask.
“Is the memory you wish to erase related to this time you believe you have lived repeatedly?”
“Something like that.”
As Dr. Sigmund scribbled notes on his consultation chart, the woman added an explanation.
“To put it simply, you just need to erase the memory of one person from my mind.”
Dr. Sigmund looked at the woman who had stated such a complex request with such unsettling simplicity. “Why do you want to erase that person from your memory?”
“As I said, I am living my past repeatedly.”
Her voice dropped even lower, sounding like a secret never meant for daylight.
“The death of that person.”
“I see. When did the deceased pass away?”
“He is alive.”
Before he could challenge her, she added, as if reading his skepticism.
“It does not matter if you do not believe me. You just need to help me erase my memory.”
Erasing the recurring death of a living person… It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard preposterous claims before. But there was another reason Dr. Sigmund considered this woman a unique case.
“Do I seem like a madwoman? Yes, I am mad. So there is no need to focus on whether what I say is true or not. However, you must grant my request.”
“Well, to perform the treatment, the veracity of the claim is quite important.”
Treating patients requires a considerable amount of patience. And Dr. Sigmund had never once lost a tug-of-war with a patient.
“Dr. Sigmund Neumann, I am not here as a patient. I am here to make a request, and if you grant it, it will be a good thing for you as well.”
The woman took a checkbook from her bag and tore out a single leaf. She signed her name, placed the check on the table, and finished her statement.
“Above all, I know that you find this situation quite interesting, even while pretending otherwise. And I know you will eventually accept my offer.”
It was an offer he could not refuse. He was certain that no matter what amount he wrote on that check, it would end up in his hands.
A powerful sponsor and a fascinating case. It was like killing two birds with one stone. Dr. Sigmund gazed at the blank check for a moment, then, with the feeling of someone reaching for forbidden fruit, he picked it up.
He had been soundly defeated.
Observing this, the woman rose with a look of quiet satisfaction.
“Every Sunday, after the morning mass ends, come to the second floor of 11 Rasharière Street. If you do not show up, I will report the check as stolen.”
A playful smile touched her lips. Dr. Sigmund looked at her and suddenly confessed.
“I actually know who you are.”
In truth, he had recognized her the moment she approached him in the dark alley. She was far too famous to be obscured by a mere veil.
“Answer me one thing. Is the person whose death you repeat in your memories… your husband?”
A long silence followed. Madam Russell, who had been standing as still as a statue, finally opened her mouth after a long while, as if waking from a shallow sleep.
“The first winter of my 23rd year… my husband committed suicide before my eyes. I was the one who drove him to it. I intended to follow him in death, but when I came to, it was the spring of my 22nd year.”
The fatigue and age of someone who had carried years on their back seemed to seep into the young woman’s voice.
“And now, trapped between the spring of my 22nd year and the summer of my 24th, I am struggling to save the man who died.”
Her long, pale fingers lifted the black veil, and clear turquoise eyes stared at Dr. Sigmund.
“And you are the only lifeline that will save me from this hell.”
Meeting her gaze, Dr. Sigmund realized: this woman—whom he had met for the first time today, who was so heavy with complications and baggage—truly regarded him as her only savior.
He could not help but ask.
“Are you not worried… that I might disclose your story to someone else?”
“No.”
As if he had asked an absurd question, Madam Russell widened her eyes.
“You took the Hippocratic Oath, and unless there is a serious threat to your own well-being, you are a man who would keep that oath.”
“You have been speaking as if… you already know me.”
“I told you. I am living my past repeatedly.”
A counselor must remain neutral when listening to a client. This means not unconditionally believing nor disbelieving the patient’s claims. In that case, this question should not have been asked.
“Does that mean you have already met me in the past you are repeating?”
“Well, what do you think?”
Replying in a tone one might use to tease a close friend, she left her final farewell as she opened the door.
“Then, until next Sunday.”
Feeling as if he had become Faust himself, Dr. Sigmund sat dazed in his seat before eventually folding the check into his wallet and finishing the consultation chart left on the table.
Name: Mme. Freya Russell
Age: Early 20s
Symptoms: Believes she is living through time repeatedly and, through this, is experiencing her husband’s death over and over again. Claims she has mental issues, but it is highly likely she does not actually think so.
Diagnosis: Possibility of dementia praecox. Needs further observation.
Notes: Hopes to erase memories related to her husband through hypnosis. Implied that we have met before (believes I have met her in her recurring past).
Consultation Schedule: Every Sunday
Address: 11 Rasharière Street, 2nd Floor
✦ ✦ ✦
“Madam, I thought my heart was going to jump right out of my chest!”
As she boarded the carriage that had been waiting outside Dr. Sigmund’s clinic, Milla welcomed her warmly.
“But how did you know someone was tailing you?”
“The lounge door was open, wasn’t it? I saw a man running away then.”
It was a lie. No matter how sloppy the surveillance, they wouldn’t have been that amateurish. But Milla believed her words without suspicion.
“Who on earth would have ordered someone to tail you?”
“Someone who hates me very much, I suppose.”
Freya answered, picturing the arrogant face of Auguste Delaporte.
It would be a laughingstock for even a stray dog if the eldest son of a three-generation banking family suffered from aristophobia, but Auguste Delaporte was a man who detested the nobility so intensely he would wake from his sleep just to spit out curses, whether a dog was listening or not.
The aristocrat Auguste detested the most was, without question, the Duke Blanc, and the next was her, Freya Blanc.
“Both the Duke and the President are simply going too far.”
Milla, who couldn’t imagine that either of them would be the one to have her followed, bit her lip.
“Even so, you are family by blood, and a married couple with vows for a lifetime—how could they take no measures until you were in such danger?”
Truth be told, there was no real danger. The person who ordered the tailing was her husband’s secretary. But that hardly mattered.
Even Milla knew the truth, though the former her had been the only one who didn’t.