“Do you recognize this person?” Doctor Westry holds an ancient looking tattered photograph out to Low.

The young man’s eyes skimmed over the picture, widening as the image began to sink into his mind. His jaw quivered and he handed the picture back hesitantly.

“Yes, I recognize her. That’s Saundra. Saundra Lang… she… she’s one of the people, the people you say were in my dreams. The ghosts. I remember her so vividly,” Low covered his face with his hands peering through the split fingers at Doctor Westry.

“You are right, that was Saundra Lang. Now here is another one. We are not sure who it is, but there has been some recovered correspondence that is believed to have come from this young fellow.” Westry produced another frail monochrome picture from a folder.

“That’s Jimmy. Jimmy Paige.” A tear rolled from Low’s left eye coursing down his check and dropping to his shirt. “Jimmy was killed, someone murdered him. I found his body…”

Westry’s face was grim as he took the photo from Low’s shaking hands. He replaced it into the folder and pulled out a notepad. After a few scribbles Westry returned the notepad and shifted his gaze back to Low, who by now had regained control of his sobbing.

“Low. I understand that all of this must be hard on you, of course it is. But you need to know that other people are not going to believe what you and I believe. You’ve been in a coma for nearly twelve years. I can’t imagine what that must be like,” Wester’s voice trailed off.

“Am I insane doctor? That’s my greatest fear. I’m afraid that right now the real me is locked up in some asylum for the mentally unstable gibbering about ghosts and false memories. Just tell me you aren’t part of my imagination.” Low looked at the doctor, who seemed almost stunned at the words his patient had just spoken.

“I assure you that I am no figment of your imagination. I am very real and so are you. The memories you have are real as well. I am no historian but as far as I can tell what you have been saying is true. You Low are a psychic.” There was comfort and sincerity in Westry’s voice.

The round clock set in the high right corner of Low’s bleach white hospital room said it was five o’clock; time for Westry to end the counseling session and go home for the day. It wasn’t going to be easy, Low would probably be on his mind all night and his wife would be irritated. Let her, this young man was in terrible pain, the mental anguish must be overwhelming.

Low followed the doctor’s gaze. Time didn’t have a lot of meaning for him anymore, all of his friends had moved on and he had stayed the same. He would always be the same.

“I am sorry but it is time for me to get going. You need your rest, maybe catch up on the important things young men enjoy, watching television or ringing in the pretty nurses and pretending to be sick. Don’t worry I’ll be back in here tomorrow. I’ll have lunch with you if you’d like.” The doctor left the suggestion hanging.

“I’d like that,” Low smiled pushing himself higher on his pillows, not far though he was still far too weak.

“Maybe they’ll let me bring you some Chinese food, nothing more important than food I say.” Westry got up and held his hand out to Low, who accepted shaking weakly.

“Do you have anything that I may read while you are gone?” Low looked tired but interested.

“Are you sure you could? You’ve been out of practice for…” Low cut the doctor off.

“I read to the children every night.” This surprised Low himself.

“Oh yes, I forgot. Here, don’t let the nurses find it mind you.” Westry pulled an old leather bound diary from his briefcase and handed it to Low.

“This is…” The words faded in Low’s mouth.

Doctor Westry nodded and walked out the door. The journal Westry had left was the diary of Saundra Lang. It was filled out until the very last of her days. Low turned to the first page and began to read, December 19, 1872.