The dreams returned the next night.
This time, they weren't gentle.
I stood in our living room, but it wasn't ours. The furniture floated inches above the ground. The television buzzed, though it wasn't on. And the walls… they were bleeding — thin, steady streams of black ichor running like tears from invisible eyes.
At the center of it all was the cradle again.
Same as before.
Same blanket.
Same silence.
But this time, something had changed.
The floor around it was cracked — spirals of fractured light glowing between the tiles. Something beneath the surface was… moving.
"Come closer."
The voice wasn't a whisper anymore.
It echoed through the room like a bell underwater.
I stepped forward. Slowly.
Each footstep made the cracks widen.
And just as I reached the cradle—
The floor caved in.
I woke up screaming.
Mother rushed in, eyes wide, her hair still wet from a late-night bath.
"Haruki—!?"
I stared at the ceiling. Breathing hard.
My hands were clenched tight around the blanket, nails digging into the fabric.
I didn't answer.
There were no words.
How could I explain to her that I fell through the floor into nothing?
That something was waiting for me there?
She sat beside me in silence. Her hand trembled as she stroked my hair.
"It's just a dream," she said.
But her voice cracked halfway through.
That morning, Father came home.
The silence broke.
The door slammed open.
Footsteps — heavy, uneven, angry.
His breath reeked of something sour and bitter.
He didn't look at me. Didn't look at her. Just sat at the edge of the bed and muttered.
Coins clinked onto the table. Not enough.
His voice rose. Mother's stayed soft.
Until it didn't.
Then came the shouting.
The crash.
And me, hiding under the blanket.
"Come closer," the dream whispered again — even though I was awake now.
"He's not the enemy. He's the echo."
I curled tighter. My ears rang. My chest hurt.
And then…
Everything stopped.
No sound. No movement.
Just stillness.
When I peeked out again, the room was empty.
But a piece of paper lay on the floor beside the bed — folded, old, and marked with strange symbols that shimmered slightly under the light.
I'd never seen it before.
I picked it up.
The symbols twisted. Rearranged.
And then a sentence appeared in perfect handwriting:
"He cannot see them. But you can."
My breath caught.
The floor beneath me creaked.
But not from me.
That night, I dreamt again.
This time I stood on an endless road, stretching through a sky of stars and shattered moons.
A figure stood ahead, tall and faceless, wearing something like a crown — broken down the middle, pieces floating just above its head.
I tried to speak. My voice was stolen by the wind.
The figure turned.
No mouth. No eyes.
But I knew it was watching me.
"Not yet," it said. "But soon."
Then the road split open.
And I fell again.
I woke up to morning light.
The strange paper was still in my hand.
And I wasn't scared.
Not this time.
Just… cold.
The world was changing.
And it was waiting for me to catch up.