She moved with caution, wrapped in a deep purple cloak. A stained knife was in her grip. Old blood clung to the blade, as if time had not washed it clean.

The knife neared my right hand, and I fought to wake up. My heart pounded like a war hammer. But… something was leaking. Was I going insane—or was reality slipping out of my control again?

My breath caught. I raised my hand and saw blood trickling down my wrist. The surrounding skin burned, like I had touched an old flame that still knew how to hurt. The smell was sharp and metallic, like rust that refused to fade.

It didn’t feel like a nightmare. It hurt too much to be just a dream. How could something that happened only in my mind leave a real wound on my skin?

A quiet cry escaped me—not just because of the blood, but because I had seen it before. This wasn’t only in my head. It was happening again.

I touched the cut. It was real. My heart clenched. If my dreams are starting to wound me… what happens when I dream of death? What if I don’t wake up in time? What if my body can no longer tell the difference between sleep and waking?

It wasn’t the first time. But this time felt worse. Maybe I hadn’t dreamed. Maybe… I saw it.

The room tilted. My knees trembled. Dizziness crept in, with fear close behind—as if reality itself had warped. I should tell someone. But who can I trust?

I got out of bed on shaking legs and went to the sink. I washed the wound—water turned deep red, almost black, like a memory leaking from my body. The stinging didn’t stop. It climbed inward, pain caged beneath the skin.

Everything went still, as if my ears had closed, as if time paused for a breath.

The bedroom door opened—no knock. “What happened?” Dylan asked, his voice soft with unexpected concern.

“I’m… not sure,” I whispered. Nothing made sense.

He was already holding a first-aid kit—like he’d been waiting for this. He didn’t look for proof. He already knew. Maybe he read me. He always does. Even when he tries to help, there’s something I can’t decipher. Does he know more than he says?

“It’s happening again?” he asked, no explanation needed.

I wanted to thank him… But if I opened my mouth, the tears would come before the words.

Sierra burst in—leather jacket, smoke on her clothes. Something wild in her—terrifying, yet somehow safe. “Is everything okay?” Her tone was sharp, but worry slipped through.

Dylan filled her in with a look—no words from me. I didn’t want explanations. I didn’t like the questions. I tried to run from the blood, the dream, and the truth.

“When you get to school, talk to the principal!” Sierra called after me.

“Fine!” I didn’t turn around.

A dull ache in my hand reminded me—this was real. The sun had climbed higher. Light sliced through the trees, sharp and punishing, as if the morning refused to let me hide.

In the stone corridor to the school, Oliver and I arrived at the same time. I walked in silence, thoughts snarled. I stopped by the large stone window, stared at the gray sky, and reminded myself I was still here.

“Oh, come on,” he muttered. “Is the world too small, or are you following me?”

“I don’t know what I did to you, but you’re not talking to me like that again.” He smirked. “What are you, a grandma? You sound like a cursed amulet.”

“Honestly? You’re not that far off.”

He crossed into my space. “He’s six hundred and fifty-four,” he whispered. “And how old are you?” “Wow. So you’re three hundred and seventy-five years older than I am.” I smiled. “Want a wheelchair—or should I take that as an insult?”

For a moment, his expression cracked, as if he might say something… then the cold returned. His gaze lingered too long. He recognized something he shouldn’t. “And keep in mind—I’m still your teacher,” he muttered.

He knew. And that hurt worse than the cut. He knew me—and knew I wasn’t someone who asked for help. So why choose to hurt me? Maybe he’s afraid too—not just of me, but of himself.

I wanted to yell. To kick. To vanish. Instead, I swallowed the words.

Only when the door closed behind me did I realize I was already in the classroom. My heart was still pounding. I didn’t know whether it was the wound… or the words I didn’t say. And maybe, deep down, I feared the feelings I was starting to have for him—feelings I didn’t want.

I sat between Jace and Linnea. A hand touched my shoulder. I turned—Jace. “I didn’t know you were mad at me,” he said in a soft voice. “Sorry… I fought with a teacher. I didn’t realize I was taking it out on you.”

“What happened to your hand?”

“I tried cooking and cut myself.” Better he thinks I’m clumsy than crazy.

He said nothing. His gaze lingered. “Are you okay?” His voice was gentle. I nodded while embarrassment bloomed.

He sat too close. His eyes made it hard to breathe. His hand almost touched mine—then paused.

Inside, everything burned. Was I drawn to him? Do you feel a desperate need for others to see you? When he’s silent, it hurts more than words—as if he knows exactly where to touch without speaking.

We walked through the stone hall. My hand trembled. My heart raced—not from the wound, but from the feeling. Next to him, my breathing steadied. But my heart ran wild.

If I don’t want him to see me broken, why does it matter so much that he stays? And if he disappears… what will I have left?

“What’s up?” Linnea’s voice came from behind.

“Who did you get?” I asked.

“Quaj.”

“He’s sixteen, right?”

“Yeah. They moved him up a grade.”

“What are you working on?”

“We haven’t decided.”

“We’re focusing our project on boxing and books.”

“If it helps—pick something that matters to you.”

“Thanks.” She smiled.

But something in her voice wasn’t right—too low, as if it hadn’t passed through a throat. Soft, metallic. Almost lifeless. Her scent was different, like a flower gone rotten. Her words sounded like they came from underwater.

A shiver ran through me. She smiled—but her eyes stayed cold. I noticed a blue mark on her skin—or I imagined it.

I wanted to ask… But something pulled back inside me. Not just strange—wrong. A sense of otherness. Like seeing your best friend’s reflection and not recognizing her at all.

I was about to speak when the bell sliced through.

“Can I come over?” I asked Linnea. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

“Pajama party.” She smiled. "Are you asking if you need a reason to visit me?" But again, the smile never reached her eyes.

“Okay.” I smiled back. “I’ll come by after. Jace, send me the address.”

“Talk later!” I called and ran off to class with Oliver. Or, as I like to call it, weekly torment. Reserved for sinners—or survivors.

And maybe this kind of death will save me from the rest of my nightmares. Something beyond time has already started to move.