A month had passed since Dream Ambrose saw the tall, otherworldly figure at her father's funeral. In that time, she had done her best to push the memory out of her mind. Whether she should feel relief or disappointment over his absence, she didn't know. Part of her was grateful for the normalcy, for the way the world seemed to turn without interruption. The other part—the part that always questioned everything—wondered who he was, what he wanted, and why he hadn't appeared again.
Classes had been going remarkably well. Dream found herself immersed in her coursework, split between photography and painting. The double degree wasn't easy, but she loved both, and it kept her mind from wandering into the mysterious and unknown. The professors were brilliant, the campus inspiring, and even though she hadn't made many friends, Francisca and her group had been warm and welcoming.
Still, Dream sometimes felt like an outsider. Like a part of her was waiting for something… or someone.
She had recently met a girl in one of her painting theory classes. Her name was Jessica. She was tall like Dream, about 5'9, with warm brown skin and a soft afro that framed her face like a halo. Her eyes were thoughtful, brown, and observant—like she was always watching the world with a quiet kind of intensity. They weren't particularly close, but they'd shared a few conversations. Jessica, like Dream, was torn between two passions: painting and writing. They'd met in a shared class and connected over their indecision. It was nice, having someone who understood that kind of inner tug-of-war, even if from a distance.
Now, it was late October. Rain had draped itself across the city like a curtain, soaking everything in gray and silence. Dream stood at her dorm window, watching it fall. The clouds pressed low in the sky, and the sound of rain tapping gently against the glass was oddly soothing. Her supplies were getting old. Brushes frayed, paints dry, sketchbooks nearly filled.
"I should go to town," she murmured.
She threw on her go-to rain outfit: a long, dark gray trench coat that almost kissed her calves, a black turtleneck, and high-waisted jeans tucked into matte black rubber combat boots. She grabbed her see through umbrella with black trim, slipped her headphones over her ears, and headed out.
The streets were wet with shallow puddles, and the air smelled of damp earth and autumn leaves. Dream walked with her music on, the soothing sound of Billie Eilish (Ilomilo) cushioning her thoughts. She didn't mind the rain; it gave the world a film-like quality, like she was walking through a memory.
She crossed street after street, mind adrift in palettes of color and brush strokes, until...
Headlights.
Blinding.
Fast.
Close.
A car was speeding through a red light, horn blaring, tires hissing on the wet road. Dream had stepped directly into its path, not even looking.
Everything froze.
She couldn't move. Her limbs locked, paralyzed by fear. The headlights were all she saw.
Then...
Strong arms. Cold as ice, but firm.
She was yanked backward, hard. Her boots skidded on the wet pavement as the car whooshed past, just inches from her body.
She gasped, heart pounding like war drums, and turned to look up.
It was him.
The man from the funeral.
He stood over her, his face calm, almost expressionless. The rain didn't seem to touch him the way it touched everything else. His skin was as pale as moonlight, smooth like glass, glowing softly against the gloom. His hair was damp, slicked back, and his eyes,those eyes were the same. Piercing. Grey. Unreadable.
Dream opened her mouth to speak, to say something, anything.
But her vision blurred. Her knees gave out. The world tilted.
She passed out in his arms.
---
When she woke up, it was to the warm glow of her dorm room lamp and Francisca's worried face hovering over her.
"Oh my God," Francisca whispered. "Dream, you're awake."
Dream blinked, her throat dry. Her clothes were damp but someone had put a blanket over her.
"What… what happened?"
"I got a note," Francisca said, her Scottish accent sharper in worry. "It was slipped under the door in the middle of class. It said, 'Your roommate nearly got hit by a car.' I ran all the way here."
Dream sat up slowly, her head pounding with memory. "I remember now... the car. I wasn't paying attention."
"And someone pulled you out of the way?"
She nodded slowly. "It was him."
Francisca's brows furrowed. "The guy from the funeral?"
Dream nodded again. "He was there. He saved me."