The water turned suddenly cold, and he frantically searched for a switch. But it was nowhere to be found. Panic spread through his body, and once again, he felt the suffocating grip of airlessness.

He abruptly looked up to see the water closing above him, as if two doors were slamming shut. Only a faint sliver of sunlight filtered through. He was drowning. No matter how hard he flailed his arms and legs, he couldn’t push himself to the surface. Constantin didn’t know how to swim.

Slowly, he turned his head and opened his clenched fist. The pearl glimmered in the water, catching the light and falling to the bottom alongside him.

"How beautiful she is," he thought again, the words lingering in his mind.

Cursing under his breath, Constantin struggled to climb out of the bathtub. Water, mixed with remnants of bubbles, trickled down his body. He hurried down the stairs to his studio and approached the painting he had recently completed. The boy was looking back at him – the very same boy who was destined to drown. Or had he already drowned?

His vision blurred, and a familiar pulse throbbed in his temples. His blood pressure began to drop.

"A panic attack," he realized, moving toward the first-aid kit to take his medication.

Each time Constantin thought he had learned to control the process, panic returned with renewed intensity. He tried to calm himself and breathe deeply.

It wasn’t helping. Waves of panic enveloped his mind, and through the fog of consciousness, the boy and the painfully familiar girl kept appearing. Frequently closing his eyes in futile attempts to block out the "film" racing before him, Constantin suddenly realized it was all in his head.

With a trembling hand, he began to rummage through the nightstand for the medication he had promised himself not to take – or at least to take as infrequently as possible. But now, enduring the finale was unbearable. He could almost feel the damp clothing clinging to his skin and the heaviness of the rubber boots.

Finally, he found the pills. He swallowed one without wasting time looking for water to wash it down.

He sat on the floor of the studio, cradling his head in his hands. How heavy it felt. Then he curled up in a fetal position, placing his right hand over his heart while his left hand gripped some object tightly. He could feel chaotic thumps in his palm, as if an inexperienced person were hammering a nail for the first time.

The Guide, looking grimly at her charge, quietly left the building and headed toward the Guide accompanying Constantin’s friend. She needed him to drop by and find Constantin on the studio floor, displaying those all-too-familiar symptoms.

Constantin awoke in a hospital room, shining with cleanliness. His mind felt empty. Just then, the door opened, and a young nurse entered with a tray of syringes.

“Don’t worry, you’re in the best clinic in the city, and you’ll be back on your feet in no time,” the girl smiled warmly.

“What happened to me?” Constantin asked, bewildered. “I don’t remember anything—”

“No wonder,” the Guide muttered from behind the headboard.

“It’s nothing serious. Just ordinary exhaustion,” the girl said. “You need rest and peace.”

She gave him an injection and, as she left, placed a shiny bead on the bedside table, casting a sly glance over the back of his bed.

“You were holding this when the ambulance brought you in.”

Constantin recognized the pearl, painted earlier on his canvas, and grimaced. He didn’t have the strength to think clearly. All he wanted was to sleep.

The Guide rolled her eyes, clearly displeased, and waved dismissively at the Ephor nurse as she closed the door behind her.

The medication wasn’t helping much. For a week, he received various IV drips and was assured that he was experiencing some form of autopsychic depersonalization. The doctor had ruled out selective amnesia, confirming that there was no dark-haired girl in his memory.

His friends supported him as best they could. Some recited their go-to phrases, while others genuinely tried to understand. A few simply called and stayed silent, and in that silence lay a profound meaning. But the truth was that no words would help. It was obvious to both Constantin and those speaking. Yet all the formalities were observed. A checkbox was ticked.

Days passed, but the burden didn’t go away. It was heavy, and Constantin’s weight was rapidly dropping – not because of a newfound fitness routine or diet, but because he carried that burden with him every day.

He rose each morning with it, dragged it to the dining hall, then rolled it with him to his treatments. He could feel every muscle in his body working, straining to carry the invisible load.

Time stretched monotonously. Waking to the sound of the alarm, he would slightly open his eyes and cautiously look ahead. Against the backdrop of lemon-colored walls, the burden stood out starkly. It was still there. The wheel of Sansara spun furiously, trapping him like a hamster running endlessly in its cage.