Maya Sterling twirled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the afternoon light streaming through the windows of Café Luna. The familiar chatter of the lunch crowd created a comforting backdrop as she waited for her twin sister to arrive. She'd chosen their usual table by the window, the one that gave them privacy to talk without being overheard by Chicago's literary crowd who sometimes recognized her from book jacket photos.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Anya: Running five minutes late. Order me the salmon salad.
Maya smiled and signaled their server. After thirty-two years of being twins, some things never changed. Anya would be exactly five minutes late, would order the salmon salad, and would want to hear every detail about Maya's upcoming research trip to Colorado. The predictability of it was comforting, especially when everything else in Maya's life felt like it was shifting beneath her feet.
The thought of the trip sent a familiar thrill through Maya's chest. She'd been planning this journey for months, ever since her editor had suggested she expand her focus beyond the traditional narratives of Black women in the American West. There were stories that had never been told, connections that had never been explored, and Maya was determined to uncover them. More than that, she felt called to uncover them in a way that went beyond professional obligation.
"Sorry, sorry!" Anya's voice carried across the restaurant as she weaved between tables, her designer heels clicking against the hardwood floors. Even after a morning of client meetings, she looked polished and professional in her navy suit, her hair pulled back in the same sleek bun Maya wore when she had television interviews. The sight of her sister always brought a smile to Maya's face—it was like looking into a mirror that reflected not just her appearance, but her potential.
They'd learned early in life that being identical twins meant people expected them to dress alike, finish each other's sentences, and share some mystical connection. The reality was both simpler and more complex. They were best friends who happened to share the same face, the same stubborn streak inherited from their grandmother, and an uncanny ability to sense when the other was in trouble. But they'd also chosen very different paths—Maya with her books and research, Anya with her consulting firm that specialized in helping nonprofits optimize their operations.
"You look excited," Anya said, settling into her chair and accepting the wine Maya had already ordered for her. "I can practically see you vibrating with anticipation. Did something happen with the Colorado research?"
"Nothing happened, exactly. I'm just... I can't stop thinking about this trip." Maya leaned forward, her eyes lighting up with the enthusiasm that always appeared when she talked about her work. "This isn't just another research expedition, Anya. This feels different. More important."
"Different how?" Anya took a sip of her wine, her attention fully focused on her sister in the way that had always made Maya feel heard and understood.
"You know how I've been trying to find the missing pieces in our family history? The gaps that Grandmother Aiyana could never fill in because so many records were lost or destroyed?" Maya paused as their server approached, then continued once they'd placed their orders. "I think I might actually find some answers in Colorado."
"Tell me about this historian you've been working with. Grace, right?"
"Grace Whitehorse. She's incredible, Anya. She's spent her entire life collecting and preserving Ute tribal histories, and she's connected to families who have oral traditions going back generations." Maya pulled her phone from her purse and scrolled through emails. "Listen to this—she wrote to me last week and said there are still tribal members who remember stories about the 'mixed families' who lived in their territory in the 1800s. Black families who integrated into tribal communities, women who married tribal men."
Anya's eyebrows raised. "That's exactly what Grandmother used to talk about."
"Exactly. Remember those stories she used to tell us when we were kids? About her great-grandmother who disappeared from Georgia and was never heard from again? Grandmother always suspected she'd gone west, maybe found a new life with a different community."
Maya's mind drifted back to those long summer evenings on their grandmother's porch in rural Georgia, the air thick with humidity and the sound of cicadas. Aiyana Sterling had been a master storyteller, weaving family history with folklore in ways that made the past feel alive and immediate. She'd spoken of ancestors who could find water in the desert, women who knew which plants could heal and which could harm, and always, always, the story of the great-grandmother who'd vanished without a trace.
"She used to say our family was scattered like seeds on the wind," Anya said softly, echoing Maya's memories. "Some took root in expected places, but others found soil where no one thought they could grow."
"And now I might have found where some of those seeds landed." Maya felt the familiar tightness in her chest that came with the possibility of discovering something significant. "Grace has arranged for me to meet with three different tribal elders who specifically requested to speak with me after they heard about my research focus."
"They requested to meet you? That's unusual, isn't it?"
"Very unusual. Most of my research involves me reaching out, asking for interviews, hoping someone will be willing to share their family stories. But Grace said these elders heard about my project and specifically asked to be included. One of them, an elderly woman named Rose Crow Feather, apparently told Grace that she's been waiting for someone like me to come ask the right questions."
Anya set down her wine glass, her expression growing thoughtful. "Waiting for someone like you? What does that mean?"
"I don't know, and Grace was pretty cryptic about it. She just said that some stories choose their own time to be told, and some people are meant to be the ones to tell them." Maya laughed, but it came out slightly nervous. "I know how that sounds. Like something out of one of Grandmother's more mystical stories."
"Maybe mystical isn't the wrong word," Anya said carefully. "You've been having those dreams again, haven't you?"
Maya's hand stilled on her wine glass. She and Anya had always shared an uncanny connection, but sometimes her sister's perceptiveness was startling. "How did you know?"
"Because I know you. And because you get this particular look when you're processing something that doesn't fit into your usual rational framework." Anya leaned forward. "What kind of dreams?"
Maya hesitated. How could she explain the vivid images that had been filling her sleep for the past month? Dreams so detailed and immersive that she sometimes woke up disoriented, expecting to see mountains out her window instead of Chicago's skyline. Dreams that felt less like her subconscious creating scenarios and more like memories of a life she'd never lived.
"Dreams about the past," she said finally. "About what life might have been like for the people I'm researching. But they're not like normal dreams, Anya. They're incredibly detailed. I can smell the woodsmoke, feel the texture of animal hide clothing, taste food I've never eaten in my life."
"How long has this been going on?"
"About three weeks. Ever since I started corresponding with Grace and planning this trip." Maya took a larger sip of wine than she'd intended. "Sometimes I wake up feeling like I've been somewhere else entirely, somewhere that felt more real than my actual life."
Their server arrived with their food—Anya's salmon salad and Maya's butternut squash soup—providing a momentary interruption. When they were alone again, Anya reached across the table and took Maya's hand.
"Tell me about the dreams. The details."
Maya looked around the restaurant, suddenly feeling self-conscious about discussing something so personal in public. But the lunch crowd was focused on their own conversations, and she needed to talk to someone about the images that had been haunting her sleep.
"In the dreams, I'm always by water. A lake surrounded by mountains, with the clearest water I've ever seen. The landscape is breathtaking—red rocks, pine forests, snow-capped peaks in the distance. And there are people there, Native Americans living the way they did before European contact really changed everything."
"Are you part of their community in these dreams?"
"That's the strange part. Sometimes I'm watching from a distance, like I'm observing their daily life. But other times, I'm... integrated. I'm wearing their clothing, participating in their activities, speaking languages I don't know in waking life but somehow understand perfectly in the dreams."
Anya was quiet for a moment, processing. "Have you told anyone else about this? Your therapist, maybe?"
"Dr. Martinez would probably say I'm projecting my research anxieties into my subconscious. Which is probably exactly what's happening." Maya spooned up some of her soup, grateful for the warmth. "But they feel so real, Anya. More real than dreams should feel."
"What about people in the dreams? Are there specific individuals you interact with?"
Maya's cheeks warmed slightly. This was the part she'd been reluctant to share, even with Anya. "There's... there's a man. A Native American man who appears in most of the dreams. And before you say anything, it's not some romanticized fantasy. He feels like a real person, with his own personality and history."
"What's he like?"
"Strong, but not in an intimidating way. Gentle. Wise. He has these dark eyes that seem to see everything, and when he looks at me in the dreams, I feel..." Maya struggled to find the words. "I feel recognized. Like he's been waiting for me."
"Waiting for you?"
"I know how that sounds. But in the dreams, when I see him, there's this sense of reunion rather than first meeting. Like we already know each other, even though I've never seen his face before in my waking life."
Anya was quiet for several minutes, working through her salad while Maya sipped her soup. Finally, she spoke.
"Do you remember what Grandmother used to say about dreams?"
"Which part? She had a lot of theories about dreams."
"She used to say that dreams were one of the ways our ancestors communicated with us. That sometimes, when we were supposed to learn something important about our family history, the spirits would send us dreams to guide us toward the truth."
Maya felt a shiver run down her spine. "You think these dreams are... what? Messages from dead relatives?"
"I think," Anya said carefully, "that you've always been the one in our family who was most connected to Grandmother's spiritual beliefs, even when you tried to rationalize them away. And I think this research trip is more important than you're allowing yourself to acknowledge."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning maybe you should stop trying to explain away the dreams and start paying attention to what they might be trying to tell you."
Maya set down her spoon, her appetite suddenly diminished. "That's not very scientific."
"Since when has our family history been scientific? Grandmother's stories were all about intuition, spiritual connection, and trusting things that couldn't be measured or proven." Anya smiled. "Besides, you're a historian, not a laboratory scientist. Your job is to find truth, not just facts."
"There's a difference?"
"You know there is. Facts are dates and names and documented events. Truth is understanding what those facts meant to the people who lived them."
Maya considered this as she finished her soup. Anya was right, of course. Her most successful books had been the ones where she'd managed to capture not just what happened, but what it felt like to live through those experiences. The human element that made historical events personal and relatable.
"The dreams have been getting more frequent," she admitted. "And more detailed. Last night, I dreamed about a specific ceremony, something to do with seasonal changes and community celebration. I could describe every detail of the clothing, the food, the songs. Things I've never researched or read about."
"Maybe your subconscious is preparing you for what you're going to discover in Colorado."
"Or maybe I'm having a creative breakdown and my brain is manufacturing elaborate fantasies to avoid dealing with my actual life."
Anya laughed. "Your actual life of being a successful author with a book tour coming up and a publisher who thinks you're going to write the next great American historical narrative? That actual life?"
"That's just it, though. I'm not sure I want to write the next great American anything. This research feels personal in a way my other books haven't. It feels like I'm supposed to find these stories, not just for my career, but for..." Maya gestured helplessly. "I don't know. For our family. For myself."
"Then maybe that's exactly what you should do."
They finished their lunch talking about lighter topics, but Maya's mind kept drifting to the dreams and to Anya's words about truth versus facts. As they walked back toward Maya's apartment, Anya linked their arms together in the unconscious gesture they'd shared since childhood.
"When do you leave for Colorado?" she asked.
"Monday morning. I'll be there for five days."
"Promise me something?"
"What?"
"Promise me you'll stay open to possibilities. Even the ones that don't make logical sense."
Maya looked at her sister, seeing something in Anya's expression that went beyond casual concern. "You're worried about this trip."
"Not worried. Anticipating. I have the feeling this trip is going to change things for you, maybe in ways you're not expecting."
"Change things how?"
"I don't know. But I trust your instincts, even when you don't. And your instincts are telling you this research is important, that these dreams mean something. Maybe you should listen to them."
That evening, Maya sat in her home office surrounded by research materials she'd accumulated over the past few months. Maps of Colorado Territory circa 1868 covered one wall, marked with locations of Ute settlements, trading posts, and early homesteads. Her desk was cluttered with genealogical records, copies of treaties between the U.S. government and various Native American tribes, and printouts of emails from Grace Whitehorse.
She'd been working for hours, cross-referencing family records with historical documents, trying to trace the possible movements of her great-great-grandmother who had disappeared from Georgia sometime in the 1860s. The work was painstaking and often frustrating—so many records had been lost or destroyed, and the ones that survived often contained conflicting information.
But tonight, something felt different. As Maya studied a map showing Ute migration patterns, she felt that familiar pull again, the same sensation she'd been experiencing in her dreams. Her finger traced a route from the Colorado plains up into the mountains, following what appeared to be a traditional travel corridor between seasonal hunting grounds.
Her phone rang, interrupting her concentration. Charles Sterling's name appeared on the screen, and Maya briefly considered letting it go to voicemail. Her publisher had been increasingly anxious about her next book, especially since she'd started talking about wanting to take her research in a more personal direction.
"Charles," she answered, settling back in her chair.
"Maya, thank god. I was starting to think you were avoiding my calls."
"Just working. You know how I get when I'm deep in research mode."
"That's what I'm calling about. This Colorado trip next week—I'm having second thoughts about the timing."
Maya felt her chest tighten. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we have the book tour for 'Voices from the Frontier' starting in six weeks, and you still haven't given me a solid outline for the next project. I'm starting to worry that you're getting distracted by this family history research when you should be focusing on your career trajectory."
"Charles, this isn't just family history. This is the next book. The personal connection is exactly what will make it stand out in the market."
"Or it's what will make it too niche to appeal to a broader audience. Maya, you're at a crucial point in your career. Your last book hit the New York Times bestseller list for nonfiction. Publishers are paying attention to you now. This is not the time to chase romantic notions about your ancestry."
Maya stood up and walked to her window, looking out at the Chicago skyline. "What if the romantic notions are actually the key to something bigger? What if there's a story out there that needs to be told, and I'm the one who's supposed to tell it?"
"That's very poetic, but poetry doesn't sell books. Commercial appeal sells books. And right now, I need to know that you're committed to building on the success you've already achieved."
"I am committed. But I'm also committed to telling stories that matter, not just stories that sell."
Charles was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was gentler. "Look, I understand the appeal of personal research. But you've got responsibilities—to your readers, to your publisher, to your own career. Five days in Colorado isn't going to make or break anything, but I need you to promise me that you'll come back focused on the commercial project we discussed."
"The follow-up series on Black women entrepreneurs in the post-Civil War West?"
"Exactly. That's the book that's going to establish you as a major voice in popular history. Not some speculative family genealogy project."
Maya felt a familiar frustration building in her chest. Charles wasn't wrong about the commercial appeal of the entrepreneur series, and she knew she was lucky to have a publisher who believed in her work. But something about the way he dismissed her family research as "speculative" rankled.
"I'll be focused," she said finally, though she wasn't entirely sure what she was promising to focus on.
"Good. And Maya? Be careful out there. Colorado isn't Chicago. Make sure someone knows where you are at all times."
After hanging up, Maya returned to her research, but Charles's words had disrupted her concentration. She found herself staring at the maps without really seeing them, her mind churning with conflicting priorities and expectations.
Her laptop chimed with a new email from Grace: Looking forward to your visit next week. The elders are excited to meet you. Rose Crow Feather specifically asked me to tell you that she's been having dreams about your arrival. She says the timing is significant, though she won't explain what she means by that. Safe travels.
Maya stared at the message, feeling a chill run down her spine. Rose Crow Feather had been having dreams about her arrival? What could that possibly mean?
She closed her laptop and prepared for bed, but she had a feeling sleep wouldn't come easily. The dreams had been getting stronger lately, more detailed, more emotionally intense. Sometimes she woke up with tears on her cheeks, though she couldn't remember what in the dreams had made her cry. Other times, she woke up feeling a profound sense of loss, as if she'd been somewhere important and been forced to leave before she was ready.
Tonight was no different. As Maya drifted off to sleep, her last conscious thought was a question that had been nagging at her for weeks: What if the dreams weren't just her subconscious processing her research, but something else entirely? What if they were, as Grandmother Aiyana might have said, messages from the spirits guiding her toward a truth she was meant to discover?
In her dreams that night, Maya found herself standing by the crystal-clear lake she'd seen so many times before. The water was perfectly still, reflecting the mountains and sky like a mirror. She was wearing clothes that weren't hers—a simple dress made of soft leather, decorated with intricate beadwork in patterns that seemed familiar despite being foreign to her waking knowledge.
Around her, the Ute village was alive with activity. Women were tending fires, preparing food, working on various crafts. Children played at the water's edge, their laughter mixing with the sound of wind through the pines. Men were returning from what appeared to be a successful hunt, carrying game and sharing stories of their expedition.
And always, at the edge of her vision, there was the man she'd been seeing in her dreams for weeks. Tonight, he was closer than usual, close enough that she could see the details of his face—high cheekbones, dark eyes that held depths of wisdom and kindness, long black hair that moved in the mountain breeze. He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read, as if he was waiting for something.
In the dream, Maya felt no fear, no sense of being out of place. Instead, she felt a profound sense of belonging, as if this was where she was meant to be. The lake, the mountains, the people—everything felt like home in a way that Chicago never had.
The man began walking toward her, and Maya felt her heart rate increase. This was the moment the dreams usually ended, when she would wake up with the taste of mountain air in her mouth and the sound of his footsteps echoing in her ears.
But tonight, the dream continued. The man reached her and held out his hand, speaking words in a language she didn't recognize but somehow understood: "I have been waiting for you, Numa."
Numa. The word resonated through her dream like a bell, and Maya felt tears streaming down her face without understanding why. In the dream, she reached out to take his hand.
Maya woke up gasping, her heart pounding as if she'd been running. Her sheets were damp with sweat, and she could swear she smelled pine smoke and leather, scents that had no place in her climate-controlled Chicago apartment.
She sat up in bed, touching her cheeks and finding them wet with tears. The dream had felt more real than any she'd experienced before, and the word the man had spoken—Numa—echoed in her mind with an urgency she couldn't explain.
Four more days until she left for Colorado. Four more days until she might finally find some answers to questions she was only beginning to understand how to ask.