Brandon woke to the sound of rain.
Not the soft kind that whispered against the glass, but the heavy, rhythmic drumming that filled the air with static and silence all at once. For a few moments, he lay still, his eyes half open, watching the dim light bleed through the blinds — thin bars of gray slicing across his walls.
The dream lingered. It wasn't fading like dreams should; it stayed, breathing in the corners of his room, clinging to him like fog.
He sat up, chest tight, and rubbed his eyes. His heartbeat still echoed like a second presence inside him — slow, steady, ancient.
He whispered to no one, "...the tree."
The word felt heavy, like a memory he shouldn't have.
Outside, the city-state of New Ashara was waking.
A skyline of glass and neon shimmered through the rain, towers catching fragments of dawn like scattered blades. The streets below pulsed with life — morning traffic, drone couriers, street vendors calling out in dozens of tongues. New Ashara was a city of contradictions: paradise perched on the edge of ruin, beauty built on the graves of its own history.
Once a coastal colony rebuilt after the Great Flood of 2094, it fused the heat and rhythm of the southern tropics with the grit of northern ambition. Locals said it had two hearts — the southern heart that beat to jazz and humidity, and the northern one that pulsed with steel, steam, and sleepless hunger. But deeper still, some whispered of a third heart — something older, buried beneath the foundations, still dreaming.
People said the city never slept because it couldn't. There was too much underneath — too many old promises humming in the dark.
Brandon lived in the Midport district, the heart of the city's southern bay — part Brooklyn grit, part Miami glow. The air smelled of salt, coffee, rain, and concrete.
He stepped onto the narrow balcony. The rain kissed his skin, cool and clean. Far away, the silver sea lapped against towering sea walls while neon lights shimmered across puddles below. Street screens flickered in crimson and violet, painting the fog with restless color.
Then, a flash — high above the skyline, lightning split the clouds. Not white, but gold. It lingered, pulsing once, like a heartbeat. The same glow as in his dream — the fruit's light.
The thunder rolled in slow — deep, resonant, ancient.
He blinked, and the light was gone. The city resumed its rhythm.
Later, at the Café Meridian, the world felt almost normal. The air smelled of espresso, sugar, and roasted bread. Brandon slipped behind the counter, brushing rain from his hair. The café sat on a corner where Midport's grit met the bay breeze — mahogany tables, large glass panels fogged from steam, music from old playlists humming beneath conversation.
As a shift supervisor, Brandon knew the routine by heart. Refill beans. Clean tables. Settle disputes between customers over socket ports and seating. The place was more than a café — a meeting point for travelers, students, and locals. Some even said the building itself predated the modern city, that the bricks beneath the polished panels were centuries old.
"Hey, Brandon," came Maya's voice from behind the espresso machine. "You're staring again. Did you see the rain turn philosophical, or are we just daydreaming?"
He smiled faintly. "Dreams, mostly. Weird ones."
She handed him a tray. "You and your cryptic answers. Gotta make it look mysterious for the customers, huh?"
He laughed. "You saying I'm not mysterious enough already?"
"Not even close," she said, grinning. "You forget, I've seen you argue with the muffin display."
They shared a look that lingered just a beat too long — the warmth of familiarity tinged with unspoken tension.
By noon, the rain had faded to a humid mist. They clocked out for lunch and stepped into the vibrant streets of Midport. Palm trees swayed against the shining facades. Street vendors sold iced fruit, grilled fish, counterfeit sunglasses. Overhead, the hum of hover-trams tangled with Latin beats and digital advertising jingles.
"Let's go to Grindhouse Smash," Maya said, tugging at his sleeve. "You need a break from caffeine and existential dread."
He laughed. "You make that sound like my diet."
"It is your diet," she shot back, smiling.
They walked through steaming streets alive with motion. A man on a corner shouted from beneath a battered umbrella:
"The sons of Heaven walk again! The blood of the roots will rise!"
Brandon's gaze lingered as they passed, unease creeping through his skin.
"You okay?" Maya asked.
"Yeah," he said, his eyes still tracing the preacher's silhouette. "It's just… nothing."
They reached Grindhouse Smash, a retro-style diner nestled between two towering glass buildings. Chrome counters, red neon signage, vintage posters of old cities long swallowed by the sea. The smell of char and butter filled the air. Brandon liked the contrast — modern outside, memory inside.
Seated at a corner booth, Maya took a dramatic bite of her burger and sighed. "Okay, I take it back. This place is spiritual."
Brandon chuckled, relaxing for the first time that day. "They should put that on the menu."
Between bites, their conversation deepened: music, ambitions, fragments of childhood. She talked about leaving for university in the northern district; he joked about her abandoning him for textbooks and better coffee. Beneath the laughter, there was a quiet current — the kind that builds unnoticed between two people who haven't found the courage to name it yet.
Then, as he took another bite, he froze. A sharp, metallic taste — faint but real. Like blood. He blinked and swallowed hard. The taste was gone, leaving behind a strange chill.
"You spaced out again," Maya said softly, reading his face.
"Just… tired."
"Brandon," she said, voice low. "You've been different since last week. Like you're halfway here."
He hesitated, eyes drifting to the rain-streaked window. Outside, a droplet caught the light, glinting gold before falling away.
"Dreams," he finally said. "They don't feel like dreams anymore."
Maya smiled gently. "Then maybe they're trying to tell you something."
He smiled back, but something cold stirred beneath his ribs.
You will remember me.
The voice brushed through his thoughts like a whisper in the wind.
He looked out over New Ashara's skyline — the city of endless light and endless noise — and could almost swear he heard something stir beneath it, deep and ancient, as if the city itself had begun to dream.