A man was falling into the darkness, as it was pull him down like gravity, endless and suffocating. Around him, clocks spiraled in a surreal dance—grandfather clocks, wristwatches, and hourglasses—floating in the void, ticking in broken rhythms. Some melted into the shadows like candle wax, others spun wildly out of control. Time was collapsing around him, folding in on itself like a dying star.

Then came the voice.

“I’m here, Kros...”

Soft. Female. Familiar.

Kros turned, frantic. The world twisted with his motion, reality bending like liquid. A figure appeared—a young woman, clothed in soft white light, her hair flowing like smoke. Her hand reached toward him through the chaos.

“Sis-...?” he whispered.

She was close now. Just a touch away.

“Don’t let go…” she breathed, voice trembling with urgency.

“I won’t,” Kros swore, stretching his hand forward, fingers brushing hers—

She vanished.

Everything stopped.

The clocks ceased ticking. The silence was sudden, absolute, and terrifying. Then the cracks appeared—thin lines of light slicing through the darkness. Reality itself began to fracture, as though the dream were a mirror breaking from within.

From those cracks, something emerged.

Long, clawed fingers gripped the edges of the broken dream. A figure stepped out—tall and gaunt, robed in shifting shadows, its mask bone-white and featureless. It moved with a jerking, unnatural rhythm, as if the very laws of motion rejected it.

“You don’t belong here,” it rasped, voice like broken glass.

Kros stumbled back. “What is this place?!”

The figure tilted its head. “You already know.”

It lunged.

The dream shattered.

Kros awoke with a gasp, bolting upright in bed. His sheets were soaked with sweat, heart pounding like war drums. Sunlight crept timidly through the curtains, but the warmth didn’t comfort him. The fear lingered—heavy and cold.

Same dream.

Same fall.

Same voice.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, staring at the floor. It wasn’t just a dream. Not anymore. It was her.

The name caught in his throat.

Three years since she disappeared. No goodbye. No funeral. Just gone. The world moved on, declared her dead. But not Kros.