They Said It Was Therapy. It Felt Like Punishment.

Under this moon, we tell Reflection Therapy. A tale of memory turned against itself, of guilt that tightens like a noose, of truth that waits in glass for the moment you dare to look too long.

Every full moon, Camp Jung opens its circle. No tents. No maps. Just shadow work stories told at the edge of the firelight. Where the parts of you you’d rather forget come out to listen.

This month, the Buck Moon rises. It is named for the antlers of the stag, velvet-smooth at first, but hardening to points that can wound. The Buck Moon marks growth that does not ask permission. The time when what you’ve hidden beneath the surface pushes through, whether you’re ready or not. It is the moon of becoming, of pain that carves, of instincts that sharpen in the dark.

Under this moon, we gather to tell the story of Reflection Therapy. A tale about Thomas, a man accused of murder, sent into a brutal experiment where he must live the pain of the one he’s said to have executed.

Inside the chamber, memory twists. Guilt tightens. Every breath he takes feels like hers. Every terror becomes his own. And behind the glass, the truth waits. Watching, patient, until Thomas can no longer tell where innocence ends and guilt begins.

The Buck Moon sees through denial. It does not grant mercy.

🔥 The fire is lit. The shadows are waiting.
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Thomas enters therapy hoping to prove his innocence.
But the deeper he goes, the more the mirrors show what he’s tried to forget.
Memory twists. Guilt waits.
And some cracks never close.

Thomas barely registered the cold before the glass doors swallowed him. The street behind him vanished, as if it had been erased the moment he stepped inside. The screech of the doors closing cut through the stillness like a breath held too long. His reflection in the frosted glass lagged. A flicker, a beat too late. Then snapped into place with a tightness around the eyes he didn’t remember wearing.

The air smelled wrong. Too clean. Too empty. The chemical sting at the back of his throat made him want to cough, but even that felt forbidden here. Overhead, the lights gave off a faint hum that grew louder the longer he listened. Their glow cast pale reflections along the metal walls and white panels. Surfaces that seemed to watch, cold and smooth as bone.

The corridor stretched out before him, straight as a blade. No warmth. No sound except for the measured steps of the two attendants at his sides. They wore gray uniforms that clung too close, their faces hollowed by a blankness that unsettled more than hostility would have. Their eyes didn’t seem to see anything at all.

Thomas smoothed his sleeve. His fingers shook against the fabric. The motion felt foolish, like trying to polish armor before a firing squad.

As they walked, the posters along the corridor seemed to shift when his gaze moved. One declared:
“TRUE JUSTICE IS EXPERIENCING ANOTHER’S SUFFERING.”
He blinked. The words changed.
“YOU ARE NOT WHO YOU THINK.”
Then, for just an instant, the letters rearranged themselves:
“SEE. FEEL. ADMIT.”

His pulse stumbled. His pace quickened. Just nerves, he told himself, but the chill down his spine said otherwise.

They stopped at a door marked: Consultation Room 3. The frosted glass shimmered faintly. His reflection hesitated again, then fell into step. One attendant pressed a button. The door slid open without a sound.

Inside, the room waited. It was bare and felt too bright. The kind of light that exposes what should have stayed hidden.

A voice came from within, calm, even, distant.
“Come in, Thomas.”

Dr. Helena Mercer sat behind a steel table, hands folded with the stillness of something carved. Her white coat seemed to blur into the stark light around her. Her eyes, pale as frost, reflected him back… but not quite. The gaze felt too steady, as if it looked through him and waited for what lay beneath to surface.

Thomas stepped inside. The chair opposite her was cold against him, the chill reaching through fabric to skin. Mercer didn’t move. She didn’t blink. The silence stretched, and with it came a weight.

“Welcome to Reflection Therapy, Thomas.” Her voice smoothed over his name like a stone. “You understand why you’re here.”

He swallowed. His mouth was dry, the words rough as they left him.
“I know this is supposed to make me feel what the victim felt. But I didn’t do it. I’m not guilty.”

Mercer tilted her head, the motion small, almost mechanical.
“Innocence,” she said, “is only real when it can withstand what others endure.”

His brow tightened.
“What does that mean?”

She leaned in slightly, her voice softening, but no warmth reached her eyes.
“It means what you believe about yourself doesn’t matter here. The truth we seek is measured by how deeply you can feel another’s pain.”

Thomas started to protest but stopped. Her gaze shifted to just over his shoulder. He turned, heart hammering. The wall behind him was blank. Empty as before.

Mercer’s voice stayed level.
“If you are innocent, there’s nothing to fear. But if you’ve hidden something, even from yourself, you’ll find it here.”

The walls seemed closer now. Watching. Listening. His breath slowed, but his heart did not. The ground beneath his certainty crumbled, bit by bit, under the weight of her stare.

Mercer rose. Graceful as shadow. She gestured toward the door beyond.
“Come. It’s time to begin.”

The reflection chamber loomed before him. An egg of smooth, featureless metal. The seam in its side hissed open, a sound like air being sucked from his lungs. Inside, pale lights pulsed dimly, like a heartbeat too slow to keep him alive. The hum beneath the surface seemed to seep into his bones.

Thomas stepped inside, and the door sealed with a snap that felt final. The walls seemed to close in at once, the air felt tense, heat pressing down. His own breath sounded too loud, too human, as if even that small act disturbed something waiting to see what he would do next.