January 31st, Bevan City.

"The wind has taken its last breath. Rain is coming," the elder remarked with a wry expression, characteristic of someone born with a touch of melancholy who found delight in a desolate sky. Pete, arms crossed, wide-eyed with a half-moon glasses perched on his wrinkled nose, surveyed the gray night as if on a guided tour of an art museum. The young man present shared this thought, his mind connecting with Pete's perspective.

A young guy with a layered haircut, loose attire, and a dark button-up shirt sat quietly. Pete, noting the absence of an umbrella, commented, "I imagine you don't have an umbrella."

Remi raised one of his thick eyebrows, realizing he couldn't recall the last time he owned one—a forgettable object, in his opinion. Outside, raindrops fell, fog engulfed Bevan, and the customary cold weather blurred the cityscape.

The aggressive traffic outside drowned the acoustic song on the old radio in the bookstore. The scent of aged wood lingered, blending with the dampness of the rainy weather, keeping the young man captivated, feeling sluggish and even drowsy. Yet, he couldn't afford to sleep; there was an apprehension about it.

"Now tell me," Pete turned to face Remi. The young man, head still lowered, sat with arms resting on the table, hands intertwined. He seemed to await the elder's words. "About this last dream. What else could you identify?"

"It was like..." Remi paused, searching for the right words. "It was like I was watching myself. As if I were observing from a distance, yet could see everything else."

"What else?"

"I could see her. The girl. Again." An image involuntarily flashed in his mind. "She was sleeping with her head on a table. In the middle of the street, I think."

"And then?"

"Then? Nothing. I left where I was and walked away," he said simply.

"You left her behind?" The old man sounded surprised.

"Yes," he nodded, considering it was just a dream.

"And this girl..." Pete began circling the bookstore. "Are you sure she's the same person who showed up at your workplace? Are you sure the girl in the dream is the one heading to the bar?"

Remi shifted uncomfortably. The chair beneath him almost ejected him. There was more to say, but he hesitated, admitting, "This isn't the first time this has happened. A few months ago, I dreamt I saw her. I saw her entering the bar."

"Was it exactly like in the dream?" The older man inquired.

"It was exactly like in the dream. She came in and looked for a table away from others. Wore a white coat, hair loose, slightly disheveled. Came alone and had just a cup of coffee."

The man stopped pacing, then pulled a chair for himself. Sitting across from Remi, he scrutinized him with curiosity, trying to pierce the dark and withdrawn gaze of the young man. Pete stared at Remi as if he were ill, which didn't ease the discomfort. The boy already felt strange enough.

"And the other dream? How was it?" His tone exuded pure curiosity.

Taking a moment to think precisely, the young man replied, "I don't remember much. They're like blurred scenes, coming and going. But I know I was on the ground, and I could see her from a distance. She was staring at me."

"Was that also at the bar where you work?" Pete ventured again.

For a moment, Remi thought the man would soon have a solution to all of this, until he remembered how his boss really was—an enthusiast of any interesting topic.

"I think so. I mean, yes."

"And why were you on the ground?"

"I don't know," he sighed tiredly, taking a quick and displeased thought to himself. "It was like something had happened. There was a commotion and people around me. However, I only saw her. She looked at me strangely... almost distant and oblivious to everything. Well, with this, it's three dreams. Do you think I should seek help?"

The older man seemed to consider the idea but did not yield and continued, "About this last dream, do you think it could happen for real?" Pete seemed to ignore the main issue—that Remi might be losing his mind.

"As if I were predicting the future? I hope not. It might have just been a coincidence. It might not even be her."

"Coincidences in dreams? Very unlikely. And you said they're similar."

"I can't assert that just like that. Dreams aren't clear; nothing is exact."

"In that case, you need to unravel them. Dream again..."

"I don't want to," Remi vehemently refused, his dark gaze no longer withdrawn. His reserved personality acted to avoid something greater.

"How can you not want to?"

"I have no interest and no time for that." The boy checked the time on his wristwatch, furrowing his thick eyebrows. The man still analyzed his distant face. "I need to go or I'll be late."

Standing up, he picked up the backpack on the floor beside him. As he prepared to leave, Remi noticed Pete's wife, Debbie, coming from the back of the bookstore. She carried a box in her hands.

The bookstore was nothing more than an extension of their home. Debbie once told the young man how the modest bookstore came about on that street. It was thanks to Pete, who said, "Put two cars in the garage? No way. I'm putting books. Many books!"

Placing the box on one of the rectangular wooden tables, the woman gave the younger man that motherly look capable of melting even the coldest heart.

"Are you leaving?" she realized.

"Yes, my shift starts in a few minutes."

"Remi?" Debbie called him by name. That meant he should pay attention to what the woman would say next. They had started doing this lately, calling Remi by name so that he would truly listen to them. The young man turned with the backpack on his back. "Don't you feel overwhelmed having two jobs? Should we increase the money we give you here?"

Remi thought Debbie was the only one in the world to say that so genuinely.

"What are you talking about?" The man who had just conversed so solemnly walked closer to his wife. "I don't think we can increase his salary. Would you accept it?"

The young man looked from one to the other and nodded.

"Sure. But you don't need to worry about that; I don't feel overwhelmed. I like my two jobs."

Debbie sighed with a proud smile, embracing her husband more.

"Why didn't God give us a son like him?" she mused.

"Because we were out of stock," Pete replied, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

"I'm going. See you tomorrow."

He bid farewell to the couple, passing through the Dutch door of the bookstore and heading towards the street. But before leaving completely, he paused for Pete's call, who said, "We'll talk more later, okay?"