The waves moved as if they were breathing.
Slow.
Steady.
Endless.
Zen stood barefoot at the shoreline, cool sand pressing into his soles, the wind brushing his skin with an intimacy that felt unearned. The sky burned softly above him—gold thinning into blue—as if the day itself were slipping away.
It was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
The kind of calm that didn't belong to the present.
Then—
a hand slipped into his.
Zen's breath caught.
The touch wasn't warm in a comforting way.
It was certain.
Steady.
Like someone who had already decided not to let go.
His fingers curled instinctively around it, heart thudding as he turned toward the person beside him.
But the face—
blurred.
Not hidden.
Not shadowed.
Simply unreachable, as though his mind refused to allow it.
The harder he tried to focus, the more the features dissolved—like foam slipping through his fingers.
Yet the hand remained.
Solid.
Real.
Anchoring.
They stood together as the tide crept closer, waves inching toward where their hands met—two currents reaching for the same shore, never quite touching.
A voice cut through the hush.
Low.
Calm.
Close enough to ache.
"Answer me."
Something inside Zen tightened.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Loss.
A quiet, devastating certainty that whatever this moment was… he had already failed it once.
His lips parted.
"I don't—"
The wave rose.
Sound swallowed sight.
And the world shattered.
Zen woke with a violent gasp.
The alarm screamed from the nightstand, rattling the cheap wood beneath it. He slapped it silent and collapsed back against his pillow, chest tight, breath uneven.
Again.
The same shoreline.
The same unseen presence.
The same unfinished sentence.
The dream clung to him like damp sand—sensations lingering long after the images faded. His palm still felt warm, absurdly vivid for something that hadn't happened.
"Great," Zen muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Another existential nightmare. Exactly what I needed."
He pushed himself upright, messy hair falling into his eyes as pale morning light filtered through the thin curtains of his student apartment.
Paint-stained brushes cluttered his desk. Half-finished sketches littered the floor. A crooked model set leaned against the wall like it had given up on standing straight.
Reality arrived too fast.
Zen stretched, joints popping, and shuffled into the bathroom. His reflection stared back—too alert for someone who hadn't truly woken up.
The dream always did that.
It hollowed him out without explanation.
"Waves. Mystery hand-holding," he mumbled around his toothbrush. "Very poetic. Zero context."
Zen wasn't someone who believed in fate.
Or signs.
Or memories bleeding through lifetimes.
He was practical. Logical. Mostly sane.
Dreams were just noise.
At least, that's what he told himself.
"Zen! You're late again!"
Alex's voice echoed from the kitchen.
Zen jogged out, tugging on a clean shirt. "I woke up early!"
Alex lifted a brow.
"Okay," Zen corrected, "I woke up on time. I was just… emotionally delayed."
Alex slid a plate of toast toward him. "Dream?"
Zen hesitated—just long enough to matter.
"Yeah."
"The blurry ghost?"
"It's a person," Zen shot back.
"Oh?" Alex grinned. "Name them."
Zen lobbed a piece of toast. Alex dodged easily.
By the time they stepped outside, the weight in Zen's chest had eased.
The sun warmed his face. Students laughed down the street. Music drifted from a nearby balcony.
Life felt bright.
Normal.
Zen shoved his hands into his pockets and smiled.
"Today'll be fine," he said aloud.
Whatever that dream meant—
Whoever that hand belonged to—
It didn't matter.
Not now.
He walked forward without realizing how many lives were already pulling toward him.
Somewhere else in the city, a man woke with a sharp inhale — his hand clutching his chest, pulse racing for no medical reason.
He whispered a name he did not remember learning.
And for the first time in years, Wynn Arden did not go back to sleep.