"What don't you understand, Veronica?" Ida asked, as if they had known each other for years. Even she found the ease of her own tone surprising.
There was something about this woman—so gentle, so open, almost painfully sincere—that bordered on naivety.
"My friend told me about this and insisted I come," Veronica whispered. "But what about the people who were… pointed out? I can't help feeling the world is moving in a strange direction. As if we no longer have a right to privacy."
"I don't see it that way," Ida replied.
She took a plastic cup of coffee, letting the warmth settle into her hands.
This isn't new. It looks different now. In the past, people always interfered in each other's lives—only back then, they went directly to healers, fortune-tellers, anyone who claimed to have answers. In our case, the messengers delivered us straight to the savior — faster and more efficiently.
She gave a short, amused laugh.
"People used to be closer. They shared more. They had time for each other. Not like now—always chasing something."
Veronica nodded, biting into a small chocolate biscuit.
"They've prepared this well," she murmured.
"Of course they have," Ida said. "These kinds of programs usually cost more than they're worth."
She paused, then continued, her tone softening.
"I've been there too. When life pushes you hard enough, you're looking for answers anywhere. Sometimes you even recognize the illusion… and still choose to believe it."
Veronica looked at her, quietly acknowledging the truth in that.
"Still," she said after a moment, "it feels wrong. Someone decided we needed help… without asking us. Doesn't that bother you? Don't you wonder who suggested you?"
Ida smiled faintly.
"I have a few guesses. But it doesn't matter. The truth always reveals itself in the end. Usually from the person you'd least expect."
She took a sip of coffee.
And honestly? I don't refuse opportunities like this. Where I come from, we say: The cure itself is simple — it's the finding that is difficult.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
There was something disarming about Veronica. Ida felt no need to defend herself, no need to build walls. She let herself fall into the quiet rhythm of the woman beside her.
"I really can't imagine who thought I needed this," Ida added, almost to herself. "But whoever it is… I suppose I should thank them."
She smiled—slow, deliberate, almost theatrical.
People began returning to their seats. Only one woman had left.
The rest stayed.
Curious.
Waiting.
Petra stepped forward, her presence settling over the room like something inevitable.
"Communication," she began, her voice calm but cutting, "is one of the greatest illusions we live in."
The room fell silent.
"Especially with those closest to us. We believe we understand them. We believe they understand us."She paused, letting her gaze move slowly across the women."In reality, we repeat patterns. Blindly. Relentlessly."
Ida felt a slight discomfort.
She speaks as if she already knows everything about everyone, she thought, unsettled.
Petra continued walking between them, handing out the papers one by one, her movements precise, almost rehearsed.
"We live in a time that demands constant adaptation," she said. "But adaptation is not the same as awareness. Most people never truly change. They only adjust their masks."
Her eyes stopped on Ida for a fraction longer than necessary.
Ida stiffened, just slightly.
"This test," Petra went on, "is not here to judge you. It is here to reveal you—to yourselves."
A quiet tension spread through the room.
"You may not like what you see," Petra added, almost softly. "But discomfort is where truth begins."
Veronica leaned closer to Ida.
"She's intense," she whispered.
Ida didn't respond.
She was watching Petra.
Analyzing her.
Is this confidence… or something else?
"Once you complete it," Petra continued, "we will begin mapping your relational structures. All your dependencies. Your avoidance patterns. All kinds of illusions."
That word again.
Illusions.
Ida felt something shift inside her.
"You see," Petra said, stopping in the center, "life outside Plato's cave is not comfortable."
She let the sentence linger.
"It is disorienting. Even frightening."
Ida's heartbeat quickened slightly.
Why does this sound less like teaching… and more like a warning?
"But first," Petra said, her voice now lower, almost intimate, "you have to understand you are still inside it."
Silence.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
A sharp voice snapped it.
"What exactly do you mean by that?" a woman asked, too loudly. "Is this some kind of method?"
Petra turned toward her slowly.
For a moment, something unreadable passed across her face.
Then—calm again.
"We'll get there," she said. "Step by step."
Too calm.
Too controlled.
"As for today," she added, "I think you've had enough truth for one session."
A faint smile appeared on her lips.
Not warm.
Measured.
Almost knowing.
"We'll continue next time. Same place. Same time."
And just like that, she closed the session.
No discussion.
No space for questions.
Only direction.
Ida stood up slowly, her thoughts unsettled.
There was something about Petra that didn't sit right.
Not openly wrong.
But not entirely right either.
She doesn't just want to teach us, Ida thought as she walked out.
She wants to take us somewhere.
And that realization… was far more disturbing than anything she had said out loud.