What if memory didn’t vanish,
but bled its colors out, one by one?
She sees it every day in her patients.
They don’t lose time.
They lose the shades that once held it.
A man remembers every birthday cake,
but only in ash-grey.
A woman recalls her wedding,
but the red of the roses has slipped away.
Here, therapy isn’t about repair.
It’s about what refuses to stay.
A grieving mother can trace her child’s face,
but not the warmth that once burned in the skin.
The old pianist still knows the notes,
yet the blue inside the music has gone silent.
She doesn’t doubt them.
Because it’s happening to her too.
Mornings no longer gold,
summers drained of green.
Her own life fading,
like a photograph left too long in the sun.
Then one night, a new file: Clara, 34.
Clara dreams in white.
No edges, no tones. Just blankness.
But when Clara laughs,
it bursts open. Crimson. Violet. Gold.
The sound itself spills across the room,
and for a moment the psychologist sees it too.
And she realizes:
maybe memory doesn’t die.
Maybe it hides.
Waiting for someone else’s story
to give the color back.
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