Divided Shadows_2

Part 17

Present day

For the first time in what felt like ages, Lotta felt a sense of calm wash over her—a stillness that was foreign yet deeply soothing. Her mind, usually a chaotic storm of doubt and fragmented memories, had settled. She was no longer questioning her sanity or doubting her perceptions. The visits from Zoe, the journal, and the fragments of validation she’d uncovered had given her the grounding she needed. She wasn’t crazy, delusional, or schizophrenic. The voices that once taunted her, the memories that had haunted her—none of it was a trick of the mind. She finally understood that her experiences, strange and painful as they were, held some truth.

But with clarity came a new challenge: What to do with this truth?

As she sat in her room, Lotta weighed her options carefully. She could confront confront Mrs Webber all over again, or go to the police with this new found piece or go to the journalist so they can help her dig more into her version of truth.

Yet, as she considered each option, she felt a quiet resistance rising within her. After everything she’d endured, she wasn’t ready for more upheaval. What she wanted, above all else, was peace—real, sustainable peace.

Lotta decided then and there: She would keep the truth to herself, at least for now.

Instead of waging a war, she chose to focus on healing. She’d spent so long searching for validation, for someone to affirm her experiences. Now that she had it, she realized she didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. She could focus inward, rebuild herself from the ground up, and reclaim the parts of herself that trauma had tried to take away.

The next morning, Lotta rose early and went about her usual routine, but with a newfound sense of purpose, and unlike the other times she thought she was doing better this time she was doing it for herself and that made it all different. Instead of dragging herself through the motions, she moved with quiet intention, treating each task as a step toward healing. Her interactions with staff and patients were no longer clouded by the constant need for validation. She didn’t need anyone to understand her journey; she simply needed to honor it.

During her sessions with Dr. Pierce, Lotta refrained from mentioning the journal or Zoe’s visit. She spoke instead of her feelings, her fears, and her lingering trauma. She opened up in a way she hadn’t before, speaking honestly about her grief and loss. For once, the sessions weren’t about digging up painful memories but about processing them, letting them breathe, and finally laying them to rest.

As the days went by, Lotta found herself returning to old hobbies that had once brought her comfort. She began sketching again, her fingers tracing the lines of memories and images that had long haunted her. She painted landscapes she’d never seen, faces she barely remembered, and shadows that seemed to linger just out of reach. Her artwork became a bridge between her past and present, a way to express everything she’d kept locked away.

At night, when memories of Angela or Iris would resurface, Lotta no longer felt the need to fight them. She allowed herself to feel the pain, the love, and the loss, knowing that these feelings were a part of her healing journey. She was no longer running from her past; she was integrating it, piece by piece, into her story.

One evening, as the quiet of the institution settled around her, Lotta sat alone, sketching by the dim, flickering light of her bedside lamp. Shadows danced along the paper as her pencil moved, carving lines and shapes that seemed to rise from the depths of her memory, each stroke heavy with the ghosts of her past. The silence was profound, almost sacred, and she felt cocooned within it, as if the world had momentarily paused just for her.

Her hand moved with purpose, almost of its own will, capturing memories and fragments of dreams—the fleeting smile of a friend long gone, the curve of a landscape she’d only seen in visions. She didn’t flinch at the images this time, nor did she feel the old, familiar urge to turn away. Each stroke was a reconciliation, an acknowledgment of all the parts of herself she had once tried to bury.

The dim light cast her in a soft glow, and she caught her reflection in the glass of the window: her eyes no longer held the frantic desperation they once had. Instead, there was a quiet strength there, a resilience that had taken root deep within her.

She knew there would still be difficult days. She could almost feel them lying in wait, like stones she’d have to cross on her journey forward. There would be nights when memories would resurface unbidden, sharp and relentless, like waves crashing against her mind. She might stumble, might even fall back into old fears. But tonight, under the calm light of her lamp, she realized she felt strong enough to face them.

For the first time, acceptance felt like more than just a word; it was something she could feel—solid, grounding her. She was no longer at war with herself, no longer trapped in the endless cycle of doubt and questioning. She was letting herself breathe, letting herself simply be.