PROLOGUE

"I f I were to ask you to describe a good memory, what would you choose?"

I bounce my knee on the navy blue carpet, a nervous tic I haven't experienced since school when I would be called into the guidance counselor's office. The feeling of being observed, of being watched, has always made me antsy, and just like back then, I can't leave until this is done.

"I don't see how that helps," I reply stiffly.

"You are haunted by the horrible, traumatic memories of your past, Mr. Cai," the doctor says, her posture loose and her expression indifferent. Given all that I've exposed her to today, her reaction towards me is quite alarming. "It's important to reframe how we view the past if we are to move on from it. One way to do that is to remind ourselves that all our memories aren't bad."

I think for a moment, then I hear myself say, as if at a distance, "Whenever I had a nightmare, my mother would lie down beside me and listen to me describe what I dreamt about. She would run her fingers through my hair and put all of my fears at ease. I remember one time, after I had a particularly bad one, I asked her why we have bad dreams at all. I asked why they can't all be good."

"And what did she say?" she asks.

"She said that ‘dreams are a lot like life; there are good and bad because without the bad, we couldn't appreciate the good.'"

The doctor smiles at that, making a quick note in her notebook. "Wise words. And then what happened?"

"She sang to me."

She tilts her head to the side in thought. "Did she do that often?"

"Yes."

She stares at me for a moment, then gestures with a wave of her hand, indicating I should continue. So, I begrudgingly add, "She used to sing ‘Moon River' to me. From Breakfast at Tiffany's ."

"Why that song?"

"Because it was her favorite," I reply honestly. "I can still hear her singing it as if she were in the room with me. I can hear the smile in her tone, the joy that song brought to her."

The doctor places the notebook down, leaning back in her seat. "How did it go?"