Lilith reached into her leather designer handbag, jingling her keys before putting one in her apartment door. The door clicked behind her with a creak. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes whilst leaning against the door. The bag slipped off her shoulder, hitting the floor with a soft thud. She ran her finger over a piece of cracked paint on the wall, her mind in fragmented pieces. The overwhelming memory of the blood on his hands replaced the musty smell of her apartment. The plane, the screams, the metallic taste of blood on the tip of her tongue.


    She shuddered, her vision focusing back on the apartment. The empty coffee mugs, the half-open book on the edge of her bed, even the unwashed dishes. She had lost herself to the spiralling disaster that was her career.


    She just stood there, staring lifelessly, as if time had frozen. Was it real? Her mind flickered back to the cockpit, the cold, soulless eyes of the two pilots staring back at her. Perhaps it was one hell of a dream? The thought looped continuously as she squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to break reality. But the present chill air clung to her skin, sending a shiver down her arms and legs.


    Lilith crossed the room in a daze, carelessly kicking off her smart heels. She brushed her fingers across her silky duvet—feeling every sensation—confirming that this was real life. She was there. This was her life, her reality.


    “This can’t be possible.” Her whisper carried to the empty room, as if she expected a response.


    She sat upright, her eyes locking onto her unopened laptop. The dull evening sun infiltrated the room, casting a warm glow in the room. She stared at it for a lingering moment, her body pulsating with tension. She could still feel everything. The exhaustion from his body continuously shaking, the clamminess from the blood, and the river of tears flowing effortlessly down his cheeks. Yet here she was, alive, untouched by the wreck. It couldn’t have been a hallucination. Whatever it was, it was real and terrifying.


    Pneuma.


    The word replayed in her thoughts like a broken record. She shifted over to her seat, rolling towards her desk. She opened her laptop, researching this newly discovered word trapped in her mind. The ‘breath of life,’ the ‘spirit and the soul.’


    “Interesting…” she muttered, the word barely escaping her lips.


    Lilith awoke to a muted gray day. She hadn’t slept. The young man’s last words—“I don’t want to do this”—echoed relentlessly in her head.


    She felt almost disconnected from reality. Everything felt distorted, like the appearance of static on a bad television connection. She sat at her kitchen table, nursing a coffee with a half-eaten piece of toast. Her eyes fought to stay open, the events of the previous day feeling like a fever dream.


    Orientation was today. She groaned, followed by a deep sigh, as she pushed herself to get ready. Her skin prickled at the thought of Dr. Ravenwood. His dark, curious eyes were dissimilar to his calm demeanor. There was something else, something beneath the unease. She wondered what else pneuma could do. With a steadying breath, she pulled on her cream trench coat and closed the door behind her.


    The bitter wind made her hair stand on end. The walk towards the institute felt like a sudden feeling of déjà vu. Except this time was different. Her usual weak steps were now replaced with confident strides as her heels thudded against the cracked pavement.


    Lilith’s footsteps now echoed through the hallways of the silent institute, her detailed shadow clear on the reflective flooring. The air now seemed colder, the building feeling more ominous. She headed for the elevator, pressing down on the button for the third floor. The elevator moved with a creak and shift, sending her slightly off balance. Dr. Ravenwood’s office awaited her at the far end of the corridor. Frosted glass windows surrounded each office.


    “They sure do like their privacy.” She mumbled.


    She let out a low exhale before knocking subtly on the door.


    “Come in,” said Dr. Ravenwood.


    She twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door. The room was spacious, illuminated by two lamps on the end corners of his desk. Behind him was a large inbuilt aquarium, stretching along the back wall. It was far from what she had expected.


    “Aha, Miss Hayles,” he said, standing up and offering his hand out.


    She shook it hesitantly as her eyes drifted to the cluttered piles of paper and folders covering his desk. He wore an ironed white shirt with suspenders, a classic look coordinated with an old-fashioned ink pen resting in his shirt pocket. He gestured towards a comfortable leather chair that sat opposite his desk as he cleared the papers from his desk.


    “Please, have a seat.”


    Lilith walked over slowly, placing down her dark, leather bag. She placed her coat neatly on the head cushion before easing down into the seat. Curiosity flickered across her face as she took the room in.


    “I suspected you would return.” He leaned back in his seat, intertwining his fingers across his lap. “The truth, however disturbing it may have been, had a pull, I assume.”


    “To be honest… I don’t know what to think.” Her voice faded as her mind remembered the moments before the crash.


    He cocked his jaw to the side, rubbing his fingers across his stubble. His eyes studied her, her expressions and her body language, like a surgeon dissecting parts of a brain. “Now that you’ve seen what Pneuma can do. What do you think?” he asked calmly.


    “It felt so real. A bit too real. I don’t understand how that can be possible.” She swallowed hard, her nails digging into the previous crescents formed from the previous day.


    A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “The mind is one gigantic puzzle containing thousands of memories and sensations. Pneuma allows you to tap into any of those moments, acting like the last piece of that puzzle. You place it down, and you gather access to the full picture. When you take Pneuma, you''re not a passenger in that memory; you live it yourself.”


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    She crossed her arms tightly. “Memories aren’t always a reliable source.”


    “Exactly.” He said, leaning forward. “Memories are subjective, influenced by perception, emotion, and so on. What you see may not always be the objective truth. The story is unravelled by the one who lived it.”


    “So… what I saw on the plane may not have been true.” She asked.


    “Not necessarily,” he added. “What you saw may have been incomplete or fragmented. A distorted truth, you may say. Pneuma is incredible and powerful, but it comes with certain risks.”


    “What kind of risks?” A hint of fear was clear in her voice.


    “There is a fragile boundary between memories and reality. The deeper you dive into a memory, the easier it becomes to lose yourself. If you''re not cautious, you may experience delusions and hallucinations or… even madness.”


    “But why? Why would anyone willingly want to take this drug?” The colour of her face washed away.


    His smile became more apparent now. “Truth is complicated, Miss Hayles. There are stories that need to be told. Truths that haven’t been discovered. This is where you come in. I want you to be that link between the memories and reality. Uncover the actual story that no courts or investigations will ever reach.”


    She sat frozen. Every thought and feeling rushed in at once. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a sharp breath escaped.


    “Every object we possess has significance to someone’s story,” he continued. “Some memories will be clearer than others. Some will be fragmented and broken. You will feel everything as if you were there. You will live it, Miss Hayles.”


    She took in a sharp, deep breath. Her fingers and leg bounced and fidgeted simultaneously as her eyes remained locked on his.


    “Are you able to handle all of that, Lilith?” he asked, his tone soft, almost comforting.


    Lilith nodded, her teeth nipping at the edge of her fingernail. “I want to try.”


    “Perfect.” He said with an ominous grin.


    Ravenwood shifted in his chair, opening a drawer in his desk. He reached in and pulled out a small velvet pouch. He slipped his fingers inside, drawing out the same golden ring from their first meeting. The dim light reflected on its shiny exterior, plain but full of character, with deep scratches embedded on the surface. He ran his finger over the scratches, observing it closely before returning his gaze back to Lilith.


    “I assume you remember this?” he asked.


    She nodded, her eyes fixated on the ring turning between his fingers. The memory of the man on the plane sunk deep into her mind. His terror and panic.


    “Good. We’ll be starting here then.” Ravenwood said, enthusiasm in his tone.


    “How… how do I get out?” Lilith asked, her eyes darting between the ring and Ravenwood.


    “You’re bound to panic on your first attempt. That’s why we are doing this with my present,” he said whilst standing. “All it takes is control, Lilith. When living a memory, you’re not trapped, but it can feel like it. You have to ground yourself. When you want to leave, just imagine walking away, or standing up, or just… leaving,” he finished, now leaning against the desk.


    “That sounds easier said than done.” Lilith shot back weakly.


    He smiled faintly, taking a deep breath. “The mind is a curious thing. It knows what you are capable of. But you have to believe it. If you allow anxiety or hesitation to take over, then that’s what will keep you trapped.”


    She gripped the edge of the armchair, her nails digging into the dark leather.


    “Are you ready?”


    “Not… really.” She admitted, fear present in her voice.


    “Good. It’ll be a learning curve.” Ravenwood said, offering out his hand. She placed hers in his, noticing a dark glint in his eyes. He placed the ring on her palm and clasped her fingers around it. “Breathe. Deep, calm breaths. Let it come to you.”


    Her thumb rubbed the edge of the ring in a circular motion. It was almost therapeutic. Her breathing was now controlled in a rhythmic tune. Nothing happened at first. She closed her eyes, picturing the cockpit. Then Ravenwood’s office shifted. Her stomach lurched as gravity ceased to exist momentarily.


    The air was thick; the faint hum of an engine echoed in her ears. A passenger shifted in the seat next to her. This was different. She wasn’t in the cockpit anymore; rather, she sat in the very back row of the plane. The distant scent of coffee filled her nostrils as the flight attendant pushed the food and beverage trolley up and down the aisle. The seat belt dug deeply into her waist. Her fingers tapped at the armrest viciously—picking at a loose piece of fabric—but they weren’t her hands. They were his—Leonardo Hernandez.


    She could hear a baby fussing, its irritating cry interrupting her thoughts. She focused on the indistinct murmurs of conversations surrounding her and the occasional cough. Everything felt normal. A bit too normal.


    A trickle of sweat settled on the edge of her brow. She leaned forward, her breathing low as her hands began to tremble. Her pulse quickened as she reached into her jacket pocket, slowly. She watched as a gun entered her vision. She felt the man lick his lips, dry from the stress of the situation.


    Lord, forgive me.


    She heard the man think as he clutched his cross necklace. His fingers were now shaking violently as his eyes darted to the passengers, some oblivious, others snoring in a deep sleep. A tear dropped onto the edge of his boot as he flipped the safety off.