Every night, the dreams came. Not in a way that felt like nightmares, but more like something watching, waiting, and whispering just beyond the edge of understanding. At first, they were simple—flashes of places she had never seen, sounds she couldn’t place, faces that looked familiar yet weren’t. But as the weeks passed, the dreams grew sharper, more vivid, and more persistent. Mira was a quiet woman, living alone in an old apartment on the outskirts of a forgotten town. The building creaked with age, its walls thick with the scent of damp wood and time. She had moved there after her mother’s death, seeking solitude, but the silence only seemed to amplify the strange occurrences that followed her. The dreams began one evening after she had fallen asleep reading a book about ancient folklore. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but when she opened her eyes, she was standing in a forest unlike any she had ever seen. The trees were taller than buildings, their trunks twisted into impossible shapes. Leaves shimmered with a silver glow, and the air hummed with a low, resonant sound. It wasn’t loud, but it was there, beneath everything, like a heartbeat. She tried to walk, but her feet wouldn’t move. Instead, the world around her shifted, and she found herself standing in a small, candle-lit room. A mirror stood in the center, reflecting not her face, but a younger version of herself—eyes wide, mouth slightly open, as if she had just seen something terrifying. Mira reached out, but the reflection didn’t move. It simply stared back. Then, the dream ended, and she woke up in her bed, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. She told herself it was just a dream, a trick of the mind. But the next night, it happened again. Each time, the dream changed slightly. One night, she stood in a marketplace filled with people who spoke in a language she didn’t understand, their voices overlapping like wind through broken glass. Another time, she was walking through a hallway with doors that opened into different rooms—some filled with light, others with shadows that seemed to breathe. She never stayed long enough to find out what was on the other side. The most unsettling part was the feeling of being watched. Not by anyone specific, but by something unseen, something that knew her name. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could hear it whispering in her ear, though the words made no sense. They were syllables, not words, and they left a tingling sensation on her skin. One morning, Mira decided to look for answers. She pored over old books, searching for anything that might explain the dreams. She found references to "The Veil," an ancient concept describing a thin boundary between the waking world and the dream world. Some cultures believed that certain individuals could cross this veil unknowingly, drawn by something they couldn’t name. Others warned that once you crossed, you might not be able to return. She didn’t believe in such things, but the more she read, the more she felt the weight of the unknown pressing against her. That night, she tried to stay awake, determined to see if the dreams would come again. She sat by the window, sipping tea, and eventually drifted off. When she woke, it was still dark outside. Her body felt heavy, as if she had been sleeping for hours, but the clock said only two minutes had passed. She stood up, confused, and noticed something strange. The door to her apartment was slightly ajar, though she was certain she had locked it before going to bed. A chill ran down her spine. She stepped closer, peering into the darkness. Nothing moved. No one was there. But as she turned to go back inside, she saw it—a faint, glowing outline of a figure standing just beyond the threshold, barely visible, like a shadow cast by an unseen light. She closed the door quickly, locking it twice. Her breath came fast and shallow. She didn’t know what she had seen, but she knew one thing: the dreams were no longer just dreams. They were something else. Something real. And she was no longer sure if she was dreaming or waking.