Every night, the dreams came. Not in a way that felt familiar, but like they were reaching through the veil of sleep and pulling her into something she wasn’t meant to see. Clara had always been a quiet person, someone who preferred the company of books over people, and her small apartment on the edge of town was filled with the scent of old paper and dust. She didn’t think much of it at first—just strange, vivid dreams that faded upon waking. But then the dreams began to change. At first, they were simple: a forest bathed in silver light, a path of stepping stones leading to a door made of woven ivy. The door never opened, but she could feel it watching her. Then came the whispers, soft and distant, like wind through leaves. She would wake up with her hands clenched around the sheets, her heart pounding for no reason. The dreams became more detailed, more intricate, as if something was guiding them. One night, she found herself standing in a field of white flowers, their petals glowing faintly in the dark. The sky above was not the same as the one she knew—it pulsed with colors that defied description, shifting between deep indigo and a pale, sickly green. In the distance, a figure stood beneath a tree with branches that twisted in ways that shouldn’t be possible. It was tall, too tall, and its face was obscured by shadows. Clara tried to move, but her legs wouldn’t obey. The figure turned slowly, and for a moment, she saw its eyes—two black voids that seemed to swallow the light. Then it was gone, and she woke up gasping, her pillow damp with sweat. The next morning, she found a single white flower on her windowsill, untouched by wind or rain. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen, with veins of gold running through its petals. She didn’t touch it. Instead, she placed it in a jar and left it on the shelf, where it remained untouched for days. The dreams continued, growing more frequent. Each time, the setting changed slightly—a city of floating lanterns, a library with books that whispered when you touched them, a staircase that led nowhere. But the figure always appeared, always watching. One night, she finally managed to move. She walked toward it, her breath shallow, her pulse loud in her ears. As she neared, the figure raised an arm, and the world around her dissolved into darkness. When she awoke, the room was silent. No sound, no breeze, no ticking clock. Her phone showed 3:07 AM, but the numbers flickered, as if struggling to stay in place. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and looked around. Everything was still. Then she noticed the mirror. It reflected her, but only partially. The right side of her face was blurred, as if the glass couldn’t decide what to show. She reached out, and the reflection moved—but not quite in sync with her. It smiled. She ran to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, trying to shake the feeling. But when she looked back, the mirror was normal again. She told herself it was just fatigue, just stress. But the dreams kept coming, and the signs grew weirder. One day, she found a note on her desk. It was written in her own handwriting, but the words were unfamiliar: “Don’t trust the door.” She crumpled it, but when she unfolded it again, the message had changed. “They are watching.” She began to research, searching for any mention of similar experiences. She found stories of people who had dreams that felt too real, that followed them into the waking world. Some claimed they saw things in mirrors that weren’t there. Others spoke of places they had never been, yet felt strangely familiar. Most of it was dismissed as coincidence, but something about it gnawed at her. One night, she decided to stay awake. She sat by the window, sipping tea, waiting for the dream to come. Hours passed, and nothing happened. Then, as the clock struck midnight, the air in the room shifted. A chill crawled up her spine, and the lights flickered. The mirror behind her shimmered, and for a brief second, she saw the figure again. This time, it was closer. Its face was clearer now, and she realized it wasn’t human. It had no mouth, no nose, just two empty sockets where eyes should have been. She screamed, but the sound died in her throat. The figure tilted its head, as if studying her. Then it stepped forward, and the mirror cracked down the middle. When she blinked, it was gone. She stumbled back, knocking over the jar with the white flower. It shattered, and the petals scattered across the floor, glowing faintly before vanishing. She didn’t sleep that night. She sat in the dark, listening for any sign that the dream would return. But the silence was heavier than before, as if the world itself was holding its breath. In the days that followed, the dreams stopped. But Clara never forgot what she saw. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she caught a glimpse of something moving in the corner of her eye. And though she never spoke of it, she began to wonder—was the dream ending, or had it only just begun?