The lost self. Madina Fedosova

capturing their ever-changing moods on canvas. The cabin was their refuge from the world. He always said, «Eleanor, if we could, I’d live here with you and no one else.»

      Now, the memories that once brought her joy felt like shards of glass piercing her heart. The cabin, once a sanctuary, had become a prison, each log and stone a constant reminder of his absence, a monument to a love tragically cut short. The silence within the cabin was deafening, broken only by the whisper of the wind in the trees, a mournful symphony that echoed the emptiness in her soul.

      Before the accident, before the darkness descended, before the world leached of its color, Eleanor Vance was a dynamic architect, a rising star in her field, whom her peers knew for her intellect and artistry.

      She had a passion for designing sustainable homes that seemed to grow organically from the earth, structures that blended into their surroundings rather than dominating them. She specialized in eco-friendly design, her work renowned for its innovative use of natural light, its harmonious integration of buildings with the surrounding landscape, and its unwavering commitment to creating spaces that nurtured the soul. Her designs were more than just structures; they were works of art. Every blueprint was meticulously crafted. She possessed an innate talent that seemed to foretell her future success. Her portfolio boasted a wide array of projects, from cozy woodland retreats to expansive coastal estates, each reflecting her unique vision and unwavering dedication to sustainable principles. She had been featured in architecture magazines, praised for her creativity and commitment to environmental stewardship. Eleanor was known for her collaborative spirit, her ability to inspire and empower her team. She treated every employee with respect and kindness, fostering a supportive and inspiring work environment. She had garnered numerous awards.

      Her dark, almost raven-black hair was usually pulled back into a practical bun at the nape of her neck – a style that emphasized her pragmatic nature and unwavering focus. Stray strands often escaped the confines of the bun, framing her face with a rebellious energy, hinting at the creative fire that burned within. Her eyes, the color of a summer lake reflecting a clear sky, held a depth of understanding that seemed to penetrate beneath the surface. They could sparkle with insight when she discussed her designs or soften with empathy as she listened to a friend in need.

      While Eleanor paid little attention to trends or flamboyant attire, she possessed an understated elegance and a natural grace that drew people to her. Her movements were fluid and confident, her posture erect yet relaxed, conveying a sense of inner strength and self-possession. She had a gift for putting people at ease, her genuine warmth and calm demeanor creating an atmosphere of trust and understanding. It was a subtle magnetism, an effortless charm that emanated from within, drawing people to her like moths to a flame.

      Now, she was a mere shadow of her former self, a ghost haunting the remnants of her once vibrant life. The spark that had once ignited her passion for architecture had been extinguished, leaving behind an echoing void. She had abandoned her design work, which had once provided her with purpose and meaning. Her downtown office, once a bustling hub of creativity, now stood empty, a silent testament to her broken spirit. She neglected her appearance, her once-stylish clothes replaced by shapeless, somber attire, and her carefully applied makeup forgotten. Her usually bright eyes, once a reflection of a brilliant mind and a compassionate heart, were now clouded by a perpetual veil of grief, haunted by nightmares in which she relived the horrific events of David’s death. She often awoke screaming his name, as if he might hear her.

      Her naturally slender frame had become even thinner, bordering on emaciated, and her once-healthy complexion had been replaced by a pallid hue. The weight of her grief had visibly aged her, etching deep lines around her eyes and mouth, transforming her into a frail, almost ethereal figure. It was as if life itself had been drained from her, leaving behind only an empty shell, a heartbreaking reminder of the radiant woman she had once been.

      She spent most of her time lost in a haze of grief, wandering through the cabin like a phantom, replaying memories of David: his infectious laughter, his unwavering optimism, the way he absently hummed classical melodies while working on his complex equations. She touched his belongings, seeking solace in familiar textures and scents, clinging to fragments of their shared life.

      Evenings were the cruellest hours of the day. The silence within the cabin, which had once been a comforting embrace, now pressed down on her, suffocating her with its vast emptiness. It was a silence so profound that she could hear the blood rushing in her ears – a constant reminder of the life that had been stolen from her.

      She tried to distract herself by immersing herself in the pages of a book, hoping to lose herself in a world of words, but the letters blurred before her eyes, forming meaningless patterns. She tried watching movies, seeking a fleeting distraction in the flickering images on the screen, but the stories dissolved into background noise, unable to penetrate the wall of grief that surrounded her.

      Nothing could alleviate the aching pain in her chest, the constant physical manifestation of her broken heart. Sleep offered no solace, no respite from the torment, only an endless stream of nightmares that replayed the horrific events of David’s death with agonizing clarity.

      She would see the churning waves of Lake Champlain, hear the deafening roar of the squall, feel the icy touch of the water against her skin. She would watch the kayak capsize and David disappear beneath the surface, struggling. And then, a faceless figure, shrouded in mist, would appear, calling her name with a chilling whisper, luring her into the abyss. She would awaken in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, the line between dream and reality blurred, trembling with terror in the darkness.

      Her best friend, Sarah, a vibrant artist with a shock of fiery red hair and a laugh that could light up a room, often visited the cabin, offering her unwavering friendship and heartfelt support. Sarah was everything Eleanor was not at the moment: full of energy, radiating positivity, and determined to pull her friend from the abyss. Sarah earned a living as an artist and knew what it meant to fight for your dreams. «You can’t live like this, El,» she would say, her voice filled with concern, her bright green eyes reflecting Eleanor’s pain. «You need to get out of here, do something, reconnect with the world. David wouldn’t want you to wither away like this. He would want you to be happy.»

      Sarah brought art supplies, hoping to rekindle Eleanor’s creative fire, encouraging her to paint the landscapes that had once inspired her. She suggested walks in the woods, pointing out the beauty of the wildflowers and the majesty of the ancient trees, reminding Eleanor of the joy she had once found in nature. She invited her to local art galleries, hoping to stimulate her mind and introduce her to other artists. She even offered to redecorate the cabin, injecting some much-needed color and light. They were very close and knew everything good and bad about each other.

      «I can’t, Sarah,» Eleanor would reply in a barely audible whisper, staring blankly ahead, lost in the labyrinth of her grief. «I just can’t. There’s no point. David is gone. And a part of me went with him. There’s nothing left for me here.» Sarah’s heart ached as she watched her friend so broken, so completely consumed by grief, but she refused to give up. She knew that Eleanor was still in there, buried beneath layers of sorrow and despair, and she was determined to find a way to bring her back to the world of the living.She knew that sooner or later, she would break through, if she just had enough time.

      New Beginnings?

      On one particularly bleak day, as the rain hammered against the windows of the cabin, mirroring the storm raging within Eleanor’s soul, Sarah arrived with a stack of magazines and a glossy brochure. This time, it wasn’t art supplies or hiking gear. This was something different, something Sarah hoped would offer a glimmer of hope. The materials were about the «Phoenix Institute,» a research center nestled amidst the serene landscapes of upstate New York, specializing in innovative treatments for grief,