The night was silent — the kind of silence that feels alive, pressing against the walls.
Mira tossed beneath the sheets, breath uneven. Her face glistened with sweat, strands of hair plastered against her temples. Her lips moved faintly, forming words that didn't quite reach sound.
Then —
the image struck again.
The cold floor.
The fog.
A shape sprawled on the ground.
Blood — everywhere.
Her own trembling hands, slick with crimson.
Her body jerked violently.
"No… no…"
Alden stirred beside her, blinking in the dark.
"Mira?" he whispered.
But before he could touch her, she screamed — a raw, hollow sound that tore through the quiet. She bolted upright, eyes wide, breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.
"Mira!"
She looked around frantically, eyes not seeing him, caught in the nightmare's grip. She clutched the blanket to her chest, shaking her head over and over.
"No… mm… no… what—"
Alden sat up, grabbed her shoulders. His voice was firm, controlled — the practiced tone of a man anchoring chaos.
"Hey—look at me, Mira. Look at me."
Her gaze darted toward him — wide, unfocused — like she was staring through him.
"….blood … fog… blood… blood …"
Her voice trembled on each word, disjointed, broken memories spilling from her mouth like fragments of glass.
"House… tree… cold… fog… blood… night…"
Her voice cracked as her breath hitched in her throat. Suddenly, she screamed — a raw, terrified sound that tore through the quiet of the room. She shook her head violently, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"House… tree… cold… fog… blood… night!" she repeated, louder this time, as if the words themselves clawed their way out of her chest.
Alden immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him, holding her as tightly as he dared. "It's just a dream," he whispered near her ear, his voice trembling despite his calm façade. "A dream, Mira… nothing more. You're safe. You're safe."
She sobbed into his shoulder, her body still trembling. He rubbed slow circles on her back, whispering softly, over and over, "You're safe… I'm here… it's over now."
Her breathing slowed, uneven but grounding. She blinked, confusion clouding her expression as tears welled up.
"Me… Alden… sunlight… home… warm…"
He exhaled, relief softening his features. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping the sweat and tears away.
"That's right," he murmured, voice low and reassuring. "You're home. You're safe."
He stood, helping her out of bed carefully — as though sudden movement might shatter her again. The clock ticked 3:17 a.m. as he led her toward the kitchen, one arm protectively around her shoulders.
"How about some hot chocolate?" he said gently. "The one with marshmallows, like you love."
She nodded quickly, almost childlike, her hands trembling against his arm.
In the soft kitchen light, everything looked normal — too normal. The kettle hissed quietly while Alden stirred cocoa into milk, his movements precise, almost ritualistic. Mira leaned against the counter, still pale, still shivering, eyes darting toward the window as though something might be watching.
"I—I can help," she said weakly, reaching for the packet of marshmallows.
Alden turned toward her just as she grabbed the scissors from the drawer.
The metallic clink — the glint of the blade under the light —
And Mira froze.
Her breath caught. Her pupils dilated. The room seemed to tilt around her.
For a split second, she wasn't in the kitchen anymore.
She was on the floor again.
The scissors were red.
And someone was lying in front of her, lifeless.
The scissors slipped from her hand, clattering to the tile. She gasped, stumbling backwards before throwing herself against Alden's chest, trembling uncontrollably.
"Blood… blood… blood…" she whispered, voice cracking.
Alden held her tightly, one hand on the back of her head, the other tracing small, slow circles on her back. His voice was steady, low, and almost hypnotic.
"Shh… look around, Mira. There's no blood. You're safe. You're home. It's just us."
She buried her face deeper into his shirt, clutching the fabric like a lifeline. Her breathing slowed little by little, her fingers loosening.
Alden lifted her chin gently, forcing her to look around.
"See? Nothing. Just the floor. Just us."
Her gaze followed his hand — the scissors lay harmlessly on the tile, glinting under the light. She nodded weakly, tears streaking her cheeks.
"I… I don't know what's happening to me," she whispered.
Alden smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"You're tired," he said softly. "Dreams can feel real when your mind's overworked. Tomorrow, we'll talk. But tonight… let's just breathe."
He guided her to sit at the table, poured the hot chocolate into a cup, and slid it toward her. The marshmallows bobbed gently on the surface, melting slowly — like memories dissolving.
Mira stared at the cup for a long moment, then lifted it with trembling hands.
The warmth against her skin grounded her — but deep down, the image still burned behind her eyelids.
She didn't notice Alden watching her. His gaze wasn't concerned now — it was analytical, calculating.
As if watching an experiment.