By the time he arrived at the Vogts’ house, the sun had softened into a gentle glow. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams of light filtering through the narrow front windows. A basket of peeled root vegetables rested near the hearth, and from behind the walls, he could hear the soft thud of a knife against wood.

  Frau Vogt opened the door before he could knock. She offered a slight nod of greeting and waved him inside. Her hands were still damp from cleaning, and her apron was streaked with flour and a darker substance – perhaps broth, or maybe blood. Thomas thought grimly before quickly pushing that thought aside.

  Without a word, Frau Vogt stepped aside, already turning back into the dim hallway.

  In the small back room, Gretchen lay propped up on a stack of linen-wrapped cushions, her face turned towards the open window. A faint breeze stirred the lace of the curtain, carrying the distant sound of wagon wheels and the bark of a mongrel in the alley. Her hair, unbraided and sweaty in the heat, clung lightly to her temples. Though pale, she no longer looked lost in fever or dissociation. Her eyes were open and focused, and when she saw him, her face brightened with an unmistakable smile.

  “You came early,” she said softly.

  He returned the smile, stepping further into the room. “It was actually a longer day than usual at the practice. I doubt I'm early.”

  “Smartass,” she chided.

  After a bit of friendly banter, Thomas asked about her condition.

  “I dreamt, I think," said Gretchen. "Not of anything I can recall, just movement, the feeling of it.”

  Frau Vogt hovered at the doorway, fingers looped tightly in her rosary. She did not speak but kept glancing from her daughter to Thomas, her lips moving soundlessly in prayer. Herr Vogt was nearby as well, arms folded across his chest, his presence heavy even in silence. He stood just within the frame of the room, watching with a gaze that had sharpened since Thomas’ last visit. And Thomas felt that presence. It wasn’t much, but it was there.

  Herr Vogt was catching on to Thomas and Gretchen's friendly relations, though he didn't say it out loud. He felt that his wife was catching on too, even though she hadn't mentioned it either.

  Thomas pulled a chair close to the cot and sat, glancing at Gretchen’s hands. Her right hand rested limply on the blanket. The left, however, slowly opened and closed suddenly. Then it happened again. And again. Her fingers curled with a peculiar rhythm – neither erratic nor deliberate, as if answering to some internal cadence.

  After 3 times, it stopped.

  “Did you feel that?” he asked gently, nodding towards her hand.

  Gretchen looked down. “Yes. It comes and goes. Like a thread being tugged.” She flexed her wrist once, as though testing the motion. “It doesn’t hurt. But I can’t make it stop.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  He reached for her wrist and gently felt along the tendons, then placed two fingers at her pulse. It was faster than normal but steady – not very different from yesterday. Her skin was cool and not clammy. Her pupils responded to light. But beneath all that, there was something more difficult to define or diagnose – a tension in the muscles, as if the body held itself in quiet anticipation, waiting to uncoil.

  “My legs do it too,” she added after a pause. “Especially at night. Mama says they move even when I’m sleeping.”

  Frau Vogt stepped closer now. “She twitches like a dreamer,” she explained. “But she’s not dreaming. She’s more like in a trance. Sometimes she breathes fast, like she’s running. Sometimes, her lips move like she’s speaking, but then no sound comes out.”

  Thomas turned back to Gretchen. “Do you still hear the music?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drifted towards the light coming in through the half open shutters.

  “Sometimes,” she said eventually. “It’s faint now, but it’s there. It’s not always the same, either. Sometimes it’s the fiddler, the one I heard that day in the square. But sometimes it’s different, it’s just tones, fragments, more like…”

  She trailed off.

  “Like what?” Thomas prompted gently.

  “Like the sounds you get when you blow over glass,” she said. There was a reference there. One day, she and Thomas had spent hours blowing over an intricately designed glass vessel from different angles. They marvelled at the different sounds that it produced. In turn, they tried creating a broader range of sounds. Well, Gretchen had done that more than Thomas. It was some silly fun, but she thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it. “Or maybe a kind of hum. I know it sounds abstract, but I’m not sure how else to describe it. I only hear it when everything around me is quiet. Maybe sometimes when the window’s open.”

  Her voice had taken on a strange reflective tempo, like she was recalling something that was halfway between experience and imagination. Thomas didn’t interrupt. He simply watched her. She blinked and then added in a quieter voice, “It’s like my body remembers something, but my mind has no idea what that is.”

  The room went silent after that. Even Frau Vogt had stopped muttering. Herr Vogt took a sharp breath through his nose but said nothing.

  Thomas finally reached for his notebook. This time, he did not write quickly. His script was slower, more deliberate. He jotted down her physical symptoms, then turned the page and began a new column, “Non-Physical Phenomena”. He noted, “Auditory hallucinations, variant. Persistent involuntary motor activity. Sleep movement.”

  He paused, then added, “Apparent lucidity increasing. Patient demonstrates awareness of potential humoral imbalance.”

  Herr Vogt shifted behind him, his movement audible in the creaking of the wooden floorboards underneath. “That’s enough talk,” he said abruptly. “She needs rest.”

  Thomas nodded and stood, closing the notebook slowly. He glanced at Gretchen. “I’ll return tomorrow,” he said, his voice quieter now.

  She nodded once. There was a hint of disappointment in her eyes.

  As Thomas stepped into the hallway, he heard the soft clinking of her mother’s rosary beads again and the quiet repetition of a prayer that seemed to stretch from room to room, clinging to the corners of the house like a shroud.

  "Thomas," Gretchen called out from her room. This was the loudest he'd heard her voice in three days. He turned around.

  "I've been mostly in bed for two days now. Do you think a bit more movement might actually be what I need? Maybe that is what my body is telling me?"

  Thomas thought about it for a moment.

  "Gretchen," he spoke. There was a notable softness and tenderness in his tone. "Your body is still very weak. You need rest."

  He took a couple of steps towards her room, but Herr Vogt was standing at the entrance with his arms folded. He thought better of it.

  "Your body will let you know when you're strong enough. I will see you tomorrow."

  He waved goodbye to Gretchen and her parents and headed out.