Another starless night.
The wind slid through the crack of my window, cold and breathless. No light. No sound. Only the whispering rush that coiled around my ear — soft, almost human — murmuring my name like it knew me.
I pulled the blanket higher, pressing myself into the warmth. But the wind didn't stop. It called.
And then it began again — the dream. The same one that's haunted me for a week.
I was walking. Always walking. My feet moved without my will, dragging me through a place that never ended. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of rain and rot. My hair tangled in the wind's invisible fingers as I pushed through the forest.
The trees were black and spiked like claws. Some of them tore my skin when I brushed past — thin cuts that bled quietly down my arms. Even in the dream, it hurt. Even in the dream, it felt real.
Then came the fog. And through it, a light — soft, golden, trembling like breath.
A door stood there, alone, framed in shadow. The wood was ancient, cracked, and yet… alive.
It whispered.
My name again.
Not loud — almost tender. Too tender.
Like it knew my fate before I did.
It told me to come closer, to peek through, to see.
But I never did.
That's when the dream always ends.
And every time, I wake the same way — heart hammering, sweat soaking my skin, my eyes wide open to a darkness that feels too awake.
Morning came, but it didn't feel like morning.
The light looked wrong—too pale, too quiet. Like the sun was afraid to rise.
I sat up, the blanket clinging to my skin, damp from sweat. The dream still clung to me like smoke, thick and stubborn. I could feel the trees under my skin, the sting where the branches had scratched me—
except when I looked down, there were marks. Real ones. Thin, red lines that burned when I touched them.
I told myself it was nothing. Just my imagination getting out of control again. But the air felt heavier. The room was colder. And the silence—
it wasn't silent.
If I listened closely enough, I could hear it.
A hum beneath the world. A whisper crawling up from the corners of my room.
My name.
Too soft to be real. Too close to be a dream.
The curtains shifted though there was no breeze. The shadows on my walls moved like they were breathing. I tried to laugh it off, tried to tell myself I was losing it.
But then I looked at the window.
And outside—
in the fog that wasn't supposed to be there—
I saw it.
A shape. Still. Watching.
The forest didn't end with my dreams anymore. It followed me home.
I shook it off. Whatever it was. A dream. Just another goddamn dream.
My legs trembled when I pushed myself up, knees hitting the floor before I managed to stand. The room spun. My breath caught in my throat, sharp and uneven, but I forced myself forward — to the bathroom, to the mirror, to something real.
Cold water. That would help. It always did.
I splashed it over my face, again and again, until my skin stung and my thoughts scattered like frightened birds. The icy water slid down my neck, dripping onto the floor tiles, washing away nothing but the illusion of control.
This was my apartment. My silence. My life.
Alone.
After my parents died, the place became more of a tomb than a home — quiet, empty, too big for one person and too small for all the ghosts inside my head.
College kept me busy. So did work. I had friends — five of them, if I counted the ones who actually noticed me. One kept telling me I should see a psychologist. Said I was "detached." Said the nightmares meant something.
I called it stupid. Weak. Pointless.
But now… I wasn't so sure.
Because the dreams weren't just dreams anymore. They were bleeding into my days — whispers in the air, shadows that moved when I didn't, the marks on my skin that refused to fade.
I turned on the shower, letting the cold bite into me. Maybe it would freeze the thoughts out of my head. Maybe it would numb the feeling that the wind still remembered my name.
When I stepped out, I caught my reflection in the mirror — hollow eyes, pale skin, scratches tracing the curve of my shoulders.
I sighed. The sound cracked in my throat.
"Get it together," I muttered to my reflection.
But she didn't look convinced.
I pulled on my uniform, the one I wore every morning. The fabric brushed over the marks on my skin, and for a split second, I swore I felt them burn.