The morning crept in quietly, but Ryan slept longer than usual. When he finally dragged himself downstairs, the house was already awake. The table was set, food piled high in a way that felt forced, almost rehearsed.
Lucy urged him to eat, her tone too bright. George tried to start conversations, his voice heavy with something unsaid. Gabriel talked too much, filling the silence with pointless chatter, his eyes darting to Gemma now and then.
Gemma sat at the far end, untouched plate before her. She didn't lift a hand. She didn't look at anyone. Her stillness pressed against the room harder than any words could.
Ryan ate quietly, but his gaze kept slipping toward her. Something about her silence seemed heavier today, more final, as if she were listening to something none of them could hear.
After the meal, the house settled into a strange quiet. George buried himself in the newspaper, Lucy busied herself with cleaning what was already spotless, Gabriel disappeared into his room. The hours dragged. Ryan found himself stretched on the couch, staring at the ceiling. His eyelids grew heavier until the weight pulled him under.
---
He opened his eyes and was standing in the woods.
The air was damp, the trees looming like blackened skeletons. Ahead of him, a thick wall of mist twisted, alive with faint, shifting shapes. Shadows pressed against it, stretching long, crooked fingers toward the edge.
And there she was. Gemma.
She stood before the mist, still as stone. Her hair clung to her shoulders, and she wore a pale dress that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light.
"Gemma," Ryan called, stepping closer. His voice was thin, swallowed by the trees.
She turned.
For a fleeting second, her eyes were alive — storming with anger, pain, something raw and human. Then, just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by the blank, cold stare he knew too well.
Ryan's chest tightened. He reached out to her, desperate to hold onto that flicker of truth.
But then a voice curled through the mist. A woman's voice. Smooth, sharp, unmistakable.
"Ryan…"
Miss Aveline.
His body jolted. The sound of her calling his name vibrated through the ground, through the air, pulling him backward. The shadows pressed closer, whispering in languages he couldn't understand.
He stumbled, gasping—
---
—and woke with sweat clinging to his skin. His breath came too fast, his heart slamming against his ribs.
It was just a dream. Just a dream.
He rose, forcing his legs to move, and stepped into the hallway. The air felt colder than it should. His steps echoed strangely against the floorboards.
At the staircase, he froze.
Gemma was climbing up, slowly, one hand brushing the banister. Her dress. The pale dress. The same one from his dream.
Ryan's throat closed. He stared, unable to breathe, unable to move.
Gemma didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed forward, her face blank, as if he wasn't even there. But every step she took felt too deliberate, too knowing.
And in that moment, Ryan couldn't shake the terrifying thought pressing against his mind—
What if he hadn't been dreaming at all?