Jan sat at the table, his back hunched, hands trembling though they held nothing. The clock ticked, each sound driving into his skull like a drum on the battlefield. In the kitchen, you moved quietly, footsteps spreading across the floor, and Jan felt tension building with every tap. He grabbed his head—memories struck like waves, scenes of trenches, explosions, screams, mud mixed with blood. He could still hear it, still feel it. He couldn’t switch it off.

“I don’t know... I can’t... sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and it all comes back. Every sound... step... tap... echo of gunfire. I feel like I’m back there in the trenches, alone, exhausted, worn out. And them... all of them who didn’t make it, and I’m still alive. I feel guilty I got out sooner, that you got out sooner, and I stayed...” he said, voice catching, trembling, cold, taut, yet still directed at you. “Every noise, every shadow, every quiet moment can explode and turn into a nightmare.”

His fingers dug into the edge of the table, eyes wandering over the empty walls. Each memory pushed in uninvited, like on the battlefield—unwelcome, brutal. Jan wanted to speak, had to speak, but didn’t know how—the words came slowly, still laced with numbness, and yet beneath them flickered a raw, hidden despair.

“Sometimes I try to think of something else, but I can’t. Everything reminds me of that place. Your voice helps me survive because you know what happened. You saw it all. You know I’m... not normal. I can’t control it. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but sometimes I just want to run, disappear, stop feeling.”