Every night, the same dream came to her. It always began with the sound of rain—soft, distant, and rhythmic, like a lullaby sung by the sky. She would wake up drenched in sweat, her sheets soaked, though the room was perfectly dry. The dream was always the same: she stood at the edge of a forest, the trees tall and twisted, their bark black as ink. A path of white stones led into the woods, glowing faintly under the pale light of a crescent moon. She had no memory of how she got there. No recollection of walking through the trees, but each morning she awoke with the feeling that she had. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, like old honey. When she tried to remember the details, they slipped away like water through her fingers. One night, she decided to follow the dream. She left her apartment without a word, the door creaking behind her. The city streets were quiet, as if holding its breath. She walked until the familiar buildings faded into darkness, and the pavement gave way to gravel. The path of white stones appeared before her, just as in the dream. She hesitated, then stepped onto it. The moment her foot touched the first stone, the world around her changed. The trees grew taller, their shadows stretching like fingers across the ground. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of something ancient. She could hear whispers, not from the wind, but from the trees themselves. They spoke in a language she didn’t understand, yet she felt their meaning: *You are not welcome here.* She pressed forward, heart pounding. The path curved, leading her deeper into the forest. Then, suddenly, the trees parted, revealing a clearing. In the center stood a small wooden house, its roof sagging, its windows dark and empty. A single lantern flickered on the porch, casting long shadows against the wall. A door creaked open before she reached it. Inside, the air was still and warm. The walls were lined with books, their spines cracked and yellowed. On the table sat a cup of tea, steam rising in slow spirals. She reached for it, but before her fingers touched the handle, the tea vanished, leaving only a small puddle on the wood. She turned, expecting to see someone, but the room was empty. A clock on the wall ticked loudly, its hands moving backward. The whispering returned, louder now, more urgent. She backed toward the door, her pulse echoing in her ears. Just as she reached the threshold, the floor beneath her feet shifted. The stones reappeared, pulling her back into the forest. She woke up in her bed, the room silent, the window closed. But this time, the dream stayed with her. For the next few nights, she dreamed the same path, the same house, the same whispers. Each time, she tried to stay longer, to ask questions, to find answers. But the house remained empty, the tea disappeared, and the path always pulled her back. One night, she found a key in her pocket. It was cold, smooth, and unmarked. She followed the path again, the stones glowing brighter than before. The house stood waiting, the door slightly ajar. She hesitated, then pushed it open. Inside, the air was different—warmer, quieter. The books were gone, replaced by mirrors. Each one reflected not her face, but another version of herself, standing in the same room, watching her. She stepped closer, and the reflection moved, smiling. The other girl raised a hand, pointing to a mirror at the far end of the room. When she looked, she saw herself, but older, her eyes filled with something she couldn’t name. The reflection whispered, "You’ve been here before." She stumbled back, knocking over a chair. The room shuddered, the mirrors cracking. The house groaned, the floorboards creaking like a living thing. She ran, the path reappearing beneath her feet, pulling her back into the forest. She woke up gasping, her hands trembling. The key was gone. The dream had changed. Now, when she closed her eyes, she saw not the path, but a doorway—just like the one in the house. And behind it, a voice, soft and familiar, saying, "You will return." But why? And to what?