The room felt colder today. Even though the heater was on, a chill lingered in the air, making her pull her sweater tighter around her shoulders. She sat at her desk, staring at the old book that had been collecting dust for years. It wasn't a special book by any means, at least not at first glance. She wasn't even sure why she kept it.
But today, something was different.
Her fingers hovered over the cover, hesitant. She didn't even remember why she had pulled it off the shelf. Maybe it was boredom, or maybe it was something else entirely—a faint curiosity that she couldn't quite place. Whatever the reason, it was open now, sitting in front of her.
She turned the pages absentmindedly, the yellowed paper crinkling softly under her fingertips. And then, something caught her eye.
Halfway through the book, a page she didn't remember ever seeing before—handwritten, unlike the rest of the printed text. Her heart skipped a beat as she stared at the strange handwriting, neatly scrawled across the page.
Do you still dream of what you lost?
Her breath caught in her throat.
She sat back, confusion and unease settling in her chest. The words seemed to pulse on the page, too personal, too knowing. How could this be here? How could this message be meant for her?
Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of it. She hadn't spoken to anyone about the dreams. They'd been a secret, locked away, and yet... someone knew.
The page felt heavier in her hands, the ink almost alive as it whispered to her. She considered tearing it out, tossing the book into the trash. Her fingers tightened on the spine, ready to rip the page out.
But she stopped. Something about it pulled at her, something deep inside she couldn't explain.
Do you still dream of what you lost?
She tried to push it away. It was just a coincidence, just a meaningless note in an old book. But no matter how much she wanted to dismiss it, the pull remained, as if the book itself was waiting for her to understand something. To remember something.
***
The rest of the day passed in a blur. She couldn't shake the feeling the book had left her with—the message, the sense that it was speaking directly to her. Her thoughts circled back to it again and again, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't forget the words.
By evening, the pull had become impossible to ignore.
She sat at her desk again, the book in front of her. The air felt heavier now, almost suffocating. The shadows in the room seemed longer, deeper, as if they were creeping toward her. She shivered, though the heater was still on.
She opened the book again, her fingers tracing the handwritten message.
Do you still dream of what you lost?
Her breath hitched as she turned the page, half expecting more writing to appear, but it didn't. The rest of the book was blank.
Her mind raced with possibilities, but none of them made sense. The dreams she'd been having—their strange familiarity, the places she didn't recognize but felt she'd known all her life—were they connected to this?
Suddenly, a thought occurred to her: What if the message was a warning? What if she'd forgotten something—something important? Her heart pounded in her chest as fear crept in, wrapping its cold fingers around her throat.
The book seemed to hum in her hands, the pull stronger now, almost unbearable. But instead of tossing it away, she found herself clutching it tighter, unwilling to let go.
She stared at the words again, the ink swirling in her vision.
And then, in the silence of her apartment, a soft sound broke the air. Barely a whisper, but enough to make her freeze.
It wasn't a voice. It wasn't even human.
It was a memory—one she couldn't quite place.