Every night, the same dream came to her. It always began with the sound of wind, soft and low, like a whisper just beyond hearing. She would wake up in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, but unable to recall what she had seen. The dreams were not nightmares, but something more elusive—like fragments of a memory she had never lived. At first, she dismissed them as stress. Work had been overwhelming, sleepless nights and long hours at the office. But the dreams persisted, growing more vivid each time. She started keeping a journal, scribbling down anything that came to mind after waking. Most entries were blank, but sometimes she would write a single line: "The trees are watching." She began to notice things. In the days following the dreams, she found strange objects in her apartment—half-forgotten items she did not recognize. A porcelain doll with cracked lips, a folded map with no landmarks, a key that didn’t fit any lock. They appeared when she wasn’t looking, as if they had always been there, waiting for her to find them. One evening, she decided to follow the dream. She sat by the window, staring into the dark, trying to remember the details. The dream was always the same: a forest, tall and silent, with trees so thick they blocked out the sky. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and old wood. At the center of the forest stood a house, its windows like empty eyes. She felt drawn to it, though she couldn’t explain why. When she finally fell asleep, the dream was different. The forest was quieter, almost still. She walked through the underbrush, her boots sinking into the mud. The trees whispered to her, their voices overlapping in a language she almost understood. When she reached the house, the door creaked open on its own. Inside, the air was cool, and the walls were lined with mirrors. Each one reflected not her face, but someone else—someone she didn’t know, but who looked exactly like her. She turned around, expecting to see herself, but instead, she saw a girl standing behind her, smiling. The girl had no mouth, only a smooth, pale face. The mirror behind her showed the same girl, but now with eyes wide open, staring directly at her. The girl reached out, and the mirror shattered. The glass cut her hands, but she didn’t feel pain. Instead, she felt a deep calm, as if she had been waiting for this moment all along. She woke up in a cold sweat, her hands bleeding slightly. There was a small cut on her palm, but no sign of broken glass. The room was quiet, too quiet. She looked around, and saw the same porcelain doll sitting on her desk, its head tilted slightly, as if listening. Over the next few weeks, the dreams grew stranger. Sometimes she would find herself standing in the same forest, but the house was gone. Other times, she would hear a voice calling her name, but when she turned, no one was there. She began to wonder if the dreams were real or if she was losing her mind. The lines between reality and illusion blurred, and she could no longer tell which was which. One night, she decided to stay awake until the dream came again. She sipped tea, read a book, and tried to ignore the growing pressure in her chest. As the clock ticked past midnight, the world around her seemed to shift. The room dimmed, the shadows stretching unnaturally. Then, she heard it—the whisper again, softer this time, almost like a lullaby. She followed the sound, stepping outside into the cold night. The street was empty, but the air was thick with the scent of pine and rain. She walked toward the edge of town, where the woods began. The trees loomed ahead, their branches tangled like fingers reaching for the sky. As she stepped into the forest, the stars disappeared. The darkness was absolute, yet she could see. The path before her was clear, as if it had been waiting for her. She moved forward, her breath steady, her heart calm. She passed the same trees, the same silence, until she reached the house again. This time, the door was open. She stepped inside, and the air changed. It was warmer, almost inviting. The walls were covered in mirrors, but this time, they showed different things. Some reflected her childhood home, others showed places she had never been. One mirror showed her standing in the same room, but older, her hair gray, her eyes tired. In the center of the room, there was a chair. It was waiting for her. She sat down, and the mirrors began to show her life—not the one she knew, but another version of it. She saw herself making different choices, living different lives, some happy, some tragic. She watched as the reflections changed, shifting between possibilities. Then, the mirror in front of her shifted. It showed a version of herself, standing in the forest, staring back at her. The reflection smiled, then slowly raised a hand. The mirror cracked, and the other mirrors began to shatter one by one. She screamed, but no sound came out. The last thing she saw was the reflection disappearing, and the world going black. When she woke up, she was in her bed, the sun rising outside her window. Her hands were clean, her skin unmarked. But something was different. She could feel it, like a weight in her chest. The dreams were gone, but she knew they would return. Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, the forest was still waiting. And the house, with its endless mirrors, was still there, watching.