The alarm's shrill beeping drilled into his ears, dragging him out of sleep. Dave groaned, slapping at the clock until the noise stopped. His body felt leaden, as though he had been running all night instead of sleeping. He blinked at the pale light spilling through his curtains and muttered to himself, "Thank goodness it's morning"
He rolled out of bed, shuffling toward the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with a tired face, eyes shadowed, skin clammy, lips pale. He splashed cold water onto his cheeks and let it drip down his neck, hoping to wash away the lingering weight of his dreams.
The whisper was still there, coiled at the back of his mind like a venomous snake. Erim Afoo. The phrase hadn't loosened its grip since the night before.
By the time he left the house, his head still ached, but at least he looked halfway normal. Blue denim jeans, a black t-shirt with a fading Egyptian pyramid design, sneakers scuffed from months of wear. His hoverboard hummed beneath his feet as he sped down the familiar streets toward the university.
The air was crisp, carrying the scent of roasted beans from a corner café. People bustled about, students with backpacks slung carelessly, vendors shouting their morning specials, children darting between stalls. Dave tried to focus on them, on the ordinary rhythm of life, but his mind kept slipping back to the starless plain and the man who had called himself Igwe-ka-Ala.
Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the university's virtual reality library. Swiping his student card at the glass doors, he stepped into a hushed world of glowing screens and holographic shelves. Rows of students sat with VR headsets, their bodies still while their minds wandered other worlds. Dave slid into his usual booth, activated the headset, and lost himself in study.
For three hours, he managed peace.
But hunger broke through. His stomach growled loud enough to earn a side glance from the girl at the next booth. Flushing, Dave signed out and made his way to one of the campus cafés.
He ordered his usual, Mexican tacos and a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Settling at a corner table, he took his first bite, savoring the spice. The warmth spread through his chest, momentarily grounding him.
"Dave!"
A hand slapped his back hard enough to nearly make him choke. He coughed, twisting around to see Tunde grinning at him, smug as ever. Behind him, Nora and Jessica hovered, their eyes bright with amusement.
"You're a tough man," Tunde said with mock admiration. "Never complaining."
Dave shot him a flat look, flexing his knuckles in a silent warning. Tunde only laughed and wandered off toward the counter, but not before Nora and Jessica slid into the seats opposite Dave, smiling like they'd been invited.
He forced a polite grin, trying to hide the storm swirling in his mind. Soon after, Steven arrived, carrying his tray, and the group settled into idle chatter. Dave barely contributed, lost in thought.
All day, he wore the same expression - distant, distracted, eyes clouded.
Shen noticed.
"Bro, you're giving off a wired vibe," Shen said as they walked out of class. His tone was half-joking but his eyes sharp. "Like… metamorphosis or something."
Dave smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You're the one who looks like he's about to sprout wings."
They both laughed, the sound easing the heaviness for a moment. As they parted ways, Shen promised to check in later.
By the time Dave trudged home, exhaustion gnawed at him. He changed into his favorite blue t-shirt, collapsed in front of the TV, and tried to let the mindless shows distract him. But the anxiety only grew sharper. The phrase pulsed in his skull. Erim Afoo.
Finally, he gave up.
He dialed Shen. "Riverbank tonight? Bring the drums."
"On my way," Shen replied without hesitation.
---
The night air was cool, the stars faint above the dark water. Dave strummed his guitar, Shen tapping out rhythms on his drum. The music wrapped around them like a shield, each note lifting Dave higher.
When the last chord faded, Dave told Shen everything, the nightmare, the voice, the man in starlit cloth. Shen listened without interrupting, nodding slowly.
"Dreams," Shen said at last, "are weird. They help with memory, problem-solving, even mood regulation. Neuroscientists say they stitch our lives together while we sleep. But no one really knows the 'why.' Maybe yours are trying to tell you something."
Dave exhaled, tension loosening from his shoulders. "Maybe."
They packed up at midnight, parting with easy smiles.
For the first time that day, Dave felt lighter.
---
But that night, the dream returned.
He stood before a mud hut, its walls patched with clay, roof sagging under raffia palm fronds. The smell of dung hung heavy in the warm air. In the distance, children played in grass skirts, their laughter bright against the backdrop of poverty.
An elderly woman beckoned him inside. Her eyes were deep, her face etched with wrinkles that spoke of decades of hardship. She asked about his life, and to his surprise, he spoke freely, about family, friends, even his fears.
When he finished, she reached into a bag and drew out a necklace. The pendant gleamed faintly, etched with strange symbols.
"This is Orla," she said softly. "An ancient necklace of my people. It carries light and knowledge. When life overwhelms you, it will guide you."
Dave's chest tightened as he slipped it around his neck. "Thank you."
Her smile was warm but solemn. "Remember, child: never give up. Stay strong. Believe in yourself."
Her words sank into him like seeds.
---
The scene shifted.
The hut dissolved into mist, and Dave found himself on a narrow bush path. The night pressed close, insects buzzing in the shadows. A man appeared beside him, mid-thirties, his body gaunt, his eyes deep and unreadable.
Without a word, the man touched Dave's shoulder. His hand was cold, skin leathery, bones sharp against the flesh. Dave shivered.
Then the man spoke.
"I am Igwe-ka-Ala, master sorcerer. Hear me and obey. Be warned: death comes to one who does not respect my name."
The words echoed like thunder.
Before Dave could respond, the world shifted again.
He stood in a vast forest unlike any he had seen. Trees towered like pillars, their branches disappearing into endless skies. Mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks hidden by clouds.
"This," Igwe-ka-Ala said, "is your cocoon. A construct. Here you will learn who you are."
And then he vanished.
---
Dave wandered, encountering sprites who teased and tricked, dragons who whispered secrets of life, serpents who spoke in riddles. He learned fragments of truth, pieces of a puzzle he couldn't yet understand. Orla, the necklace, pulsed with warmth, tying him to this strange world.
Time slipped away—days, maybe years—until Igwe-ka-Ala appeared again.
"You have done well," the sorcerer said. "Take this." He handed Dave a bracelet, its surface shimmering with shifting symbols. "It will grant you access to the construct whenever you need it."
The ground trembled.
A voice cut through the air—familiar, urgent. His sister's voice.
"Dave! Wake up! You'll miss lunch!"
The forest dissolved. The bracelet glowed once in his palm before fading into nothing.
With a gasp, Dave opened his eyes to the sunlight streaming through his window. His sister stood at the door, arms crossed, scowling.
But around his neck, warm against his skin, Orla remained.