# Chapter 4 Those Who Arrive Carrying Wounds
David didn't sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes, his thoughts returned to the ring now lying on the table. He had examined it over and over, even wiping its surface with the edge of his shirt to make sure he wasn't looking at something that wasn't really there. The small engraving inside was still the same. D & E. Two letters they had chosen together when they bought the ring years ago. D for David. E for Elena. His wife. The woman who now existed only in photographs, memories, and a few belongings David had deliberately kept in a place he never opened. He knew exactly what the ring should have looked like because he himself had handed it to the funeral director before Elena's body was buried. There was no way the ring could have suddenly ended up at Sanctuary. No way—unless someone had taken it from where Elena's belongings were stored. And if someone had taken it, that meant they knew something about David's life before he came here. That thought was far more frightening than simply finding a dead woman's ring outside his room. David slipped the ring into his pants pocket when he heard a bell ringing in the hallway. Six in the morning. Right on time. There was no announcement, no loud sound to wake the participants. Just three short rings of the bell. David opened his door and found everyone walking toward the main hall in silence. No one looked sleepy. No one spoke. As though they already knew the unspoken rule that mornings at Sanctuary were not a time for conversation.
The main hall was much larger than David had imagined. The floor was made of old wood polished to a shine, while the walls were lined with tall windows overlooking the forest. Morning fog clung to the glass, making the world outside look like an unfinished painting. Twenty chairs had been arranged in a large circle. There was no table in the center. No podium. No medical equipment. Only a black stone bowl sitting in the middle of the circle. David chose a chair somewhat far from the center. Lena sat to his left. She smiled when she saw David, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. “You didn't sleep,” she said quietly.
David turned to her. “Does it show?”
“Very much.”
David didn't answer. He didn't want to tell her what had happened the night before. Not about the ring. Not about Mara. Not about the strange sentence the woman had spoken. Lena seemed to understand that he was hiding something.
“It's okay,” she said. “Everyone here has something they don't want to talk about.”
David studied her face. “How long have you been here?”
“Twelve days.”
“And you still have something you don't want to talk about?”
Lena looked at the stone bowl in the center of the circle. “After twelve days, I have more.”
The hall doors opened. Mara entered with Adrian. This time, Adrian wasn't wearing white like he had the night before. He wore a simple black shirt and dark trousers. There were no symbols, no accessories, but when he stood in the center of the circle, everyone fell silent again. David noticed that no one greeted him. They only bowed their heads. Adrian looked at them with a faint smile before finally sitting in the empty chair directly beside the stone bowl.
“The first day is always difficult,” he said. “Not because of what we're going to do. But because most of you come here believing you still know yourselves.”
David felt uncomfortable hearing that. Adrian continued, “We spend our lives collecting things. Names. Jobs. Money. Relationships. Memories. Mistakes. Humiliations. Death. We call all of that part of who we are, then become afraid when we're asked to let it go. And yet most human suffering comes from our inability to distinguish between who we are and what has happened to us.”
He paused. “At Sanctuary, we learn to tell the difference.”
David folded his arms across his chest. “If someone lost all their memories, would they still be themselves?” he asked. Several participants turned toward him. Adrian didn't seem bothered. In fact, his smile widened slightly.
“Good question.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Adrian held David's gaze for a long moment. “Memories are a home. But a home can burn down. Does its owner die with it?”
David didn't answer.
“No,” Adrian continued. “But some people choose to live among the ruins. They sleep there, eat there, build their lives there, and then wonder why they're always hurting.”
The silence deepened. Adrian raised his hand and pointed to the stone bowl in the center of the circle.
“There will be no ritual today. Today, we'll simply get to know one another. You'll speak. The others will listen. No one gives advice. No one judges. And most importantly…” Adrian looked at each face before him. “There are no lies.”
That last word made David instinctively touch his pants pocket. Elena's ring felt like a hot object inside it.
The first participant to speak was a man named Samuel. He was around fifty, with thinning hair and a face that always seemed tired. He sat with both hands clasped between his knees.
“I came because my son died,” he said.
There were no tears. No change in his tone. His composure made the sentence sound even more painful.
“An accident.” He paused. “I was driving.”
No one interrupted. Samuel stared at the floor.
“Everyone says it wasn't my fault. The police said the car's brakes malfunctioned. The mechanic said there was nothing I could have done. My wife said the same thing.” He drew a long breath. “But every night, I still see my son's face in the rearview mirror.”
David looked at the man and, for the first time, felt that they had something in common. Guilt that didn't care about the facts. Guilt that didn't need evidence to punish someone.
When Samuel finished, a young woman named Nora began talking about her mother, who had died from an illness, while a man named Julian admitted that he had come because he couldn't forgive himself after betraying his family. One by one, they opened wounds they had kept hidden all this time. David listened without interrupting, but the longer it went on, the harder it became to breathe. There was something strange about the session. Not because these people talked too much. Precisely because they talked too easily. As though, after coming here, they had lost their fear of exposing the most private parts of their lives to strangers.
When his turn came, the entire room felt even smaller.
Adrian looked at him.
“David.”
David didn't move.
“We're listening.”
He swallowed.
“I came because my wife died.”
The sentence came out more easily than he expected.
Adrian nodded. “How did she die?”
“An accident.”
“And what happened before the accident?”
David fell silent.
He felt the ring in his pocket.
“We had a fight.”
What was it about?
The question didn't leave Adrian's mouth.
But David could see it in the man's gaze.
“I said some things I shouldn't have,” David continued. “She left the house. A few hours later, I got a call from the hospital.”
David's voice began to rasp.
“I didn't go after her.”
No one moved.
“I could have gone after her.”
His eyes began to burn.
“But I didn't.”
Adrian let the silence stretch.
Then he asked very quietly, “And what do you regret most?”
David lowered his head.
For several seconds, he couldn't answer.
Finally, he said, “I let her go.”
Adrian nodded.
“Good.”
David raised his head.
“Good?”
“Because you finally said it.”
David frowned.
But Adrian had already turned to the next participant.
The session continued for nearly two hours. When it finally ended, the participants were told to return to their rooms and write down everything they felt after speaking. David rose from his chair, but before leaving, he looked at the stone bowl in the center of the room. Only then did he realize that dozens of names had been carved into the inside of the bowl. Some were still clear. Others had almost disappeared.
David approached.
He read several names.
Then he found one that made his entire body go rigid.
ELENA ARYANA.
David stopped breathing.
He stared at the engraving as though hoping the letters would change.
They didn't.
Elena Aryana.
His wife's name.
Someone was standing behind him.
“Don't touch it.”
David turned.
Adrian.
The man's face remained calm.
David pointed at the bowl.
“Why is my wife's name here?”
Adrian didn't answer immediately.
“David…”
“Answer me.”
“It's not time yet.”
David felt anger rise in his chest.
“If you knew who my wife was, why didn't you ever tell me anything?”
Adrian stared deeply into his eyes.
“Because you weren't ready to remember.”
“I remember everything.”
Adrian smiled.
“No.”
One word.
Simple.
Yet it made David's blood run cold.
“You only remember what you're capable of remembering.”
Adrian walked past him.
Before leaving the hall, he stopped near the door.
“And sometimes,” he said without turning around, “the things we forget most are the things we most want to protect from ourselves.”
The door closed.
David looked at his wife's name again.
Outside, the fog grew thicker.
And for the first time, David began to wonder whether he had really come to Sanctuary seeking healing.
Or whether someone at this place had been waiting for him long before he arrived.