Fiction · Little stories

Arsee’s little stories 27

The rays of the summer sun crept through the blinds casting a golden hue on her. She was ethereal. This was their third attempt at regression and the Psychiatrist could see that they had succeeded. “On the count of three open your eyes.” He said gently. Three and she opened her eyes. Then the tears rolled down. “I have been reborn for my son. To make sure he is well. He was only three. I was an air hostess, a blue and maroon uniform I saw. I died in a crash. I have to find him.” The Psychiatrist stared for a whole minute and then from his wallet fished out a picture of a woman holding a two year old, she had a blue and maroon uniform.