Sleep did not come easily to Selene that night. When it finally did, it was not restful. Her mind, so often occupied with layers of soil and fragments of pottery, became a chaotic dig site of its own, unearthing things that should not, could not, be real.
She dreamed in fragments, vivid and disorienting. It was Lyra, but not the Lyra she knew. This Lyra's hair was longer, braided with faded strips of cloth and strands of beads that clicked softly with her movement. She wasn't wearing soft sweaters but a simple, homespun tunic, smudged with dirt. The setting was not the clean, quiet library but a sun baked field overlooking a vast, sparkling sea. The air smelled of salt, thyme, and hot stone.
In the dream, Selene wasn't herself; she was seeing through someone else's eyes. She felt a profound sense of worry, a protective ache that was both fierce and desperate. This Lyra was looking over her shoulder, her expression strained, her beautiful eyes wide with fear. "You must go," the dream-Lyra whispered, her voice choked with tears. "Now. Before they see you." She pressed something small and cold into Selene's into the dreamer's hand.
The scene shattered, reforming instantly. Now, they were hiding in the cool, dark hold of a ship, the world rocking violently. Lyra was clutching her arm, her face pale, a dark stain spreading on her sleeve. "It does not matter," she gritted out, her voice tight with pain. "Promise me you will not look back."
Another shift. A crowded, dusty marketplace under a relentless sun. Lyra was bartering fiercely for a loaf of bread, her posture defensive, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd. She looked thinner, harder, her softness sanded away by hardship. She turned, and for a heart-stopping second, she looked directly into the dreamer's eyes directly into Selene's soul; and her gaze was one of shared, terrified recognition.
Selene woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in her bed. The first light of dawn was filtering through her blinds. A pounding headache throbbed behind her eyes, a deep, insistent ache that felt earned, as if she had truly lived through the dream's emotions. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, trying to push the images away.
"It was just a dream," she muttered to the empty room, her voice hoarse. "Too much cheese before bed. Or maybe that article on Minoan trade routes was just that dry." She tried to shrug it off, to attribute it to stress and an overactive imagination.
But the feelings clung to her like cobwebs. The desperation, the fear, the fierce, unyielding protectiveness she felt for that other Lyra. It felt more like a memory than a fantasy. The headache persisted, a dull reminder of the night's strange journey.
Needing distraction, needing the solid, logical ground of her work, she got ready and headed to the library. The familiar scent of old paper and polish was a balm. She settled at her usual table, spreading out her research notes on Bronze Age Aegean ceramics. She focused on the diagrams, the lists of excavation sites, the tangible, real history she understood.
Yet, her focus was fractured. Her gaze kept lifting, seeking out the one thing that felt both like an anchor and the source of her confusion.
Lyra was there, exactly where she should be. She was pushing a heavy cart through the aisles, reshelving books with a quiet, practiced efficiency. This was her Lyra. The Lyra in soft, clean clothes, her hair neatly styled, her expression one of peaceful concentration. The modern, real, solid Lyra.
Selene watched her, trying to reconcile the two images. The woman calmly aligning book spines and the terrified woman from a sun-scorched past. It was impossible. Ridiculous.
After watching for what felt like an eternity, Selene gave up on her research. She stood and walked over to the aisle where Lyra was working.
"Need a hand?" Selene asked, her voice still a little rough from her restless night.
Lyra turned, and a warm, genuine smile lit up her face, instantly banishing the last ghostly remnants of the dream. "A little," she admitted. "The cart gets stubborn around this corner. It thinks it has a mind of its own."
Selene moved to the other side of the cart and pushed. Together, they guided it smoothly down the aisle. Their shoulders brushed as they worked side-by-side, sorting and shelving. The contact was simple, real, grounding.
"Rough night?" Lyra asked softly, glancing at Selene as she slid a thick history volume into its proper place.
"You could say that," Selene replied with a weak chuckle. "Weird dreams. Left me with a headache."
"Anything interesting?" Lyra asked, her tone light and curious.
Selene paused, a book in her hand. She looked at Lyra, at the calm curiosity in her eyes, so different from the storm of fear in her dream. She couldn't tell her. It was too strange, too intense.
"Just the usual nonsense," Selene said, shaking her head and offering a smile. "My brain trying to process too much information, I think."
She focused on the task, on the simple pleasure of helping Lyra, of being near her in the quiet, sunlit library. Each book she placed on a shelf felt like an act of reaffirming reality. This is real, she told herself. This is now.
But deep down, a part of her couldn't let it go. The dream felt less like nonsense and more like a message, a piece of a puzzle she didn't yet know how to solve. And as she stole another glance at Lyra's profile, serene and focused, she couldn't shake the haunting question: who was the woman in her dreams, and why did she feel so completely, terrifyingly familiar?