Every night, Clara dreamed of the same place. It was a small village, nestled in a valley that seemed to pulse with an ancient rhythm. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the sky above was always a deep, unnatural blue. She would walk through the cobbled streets, past houses with windows that never reflected anything, and into the center of town where a great stone well stood. It was there she always woke up, gasping for breath, her hands trembling against the cold sheets. The dreams began when she turned twenty-one. At first, they were fleeting—just glimpses of the village, shadows moving at the edges of her vision. But soon they became more vivid, more detailed. She could hear the distant sound of a church bell, though no church existed in the dream. She could taste the metallic tang of rain on her tongue, even though it had not rained in weeks. And every time she reached the well, something called to her from beneath its surface. She tried to ignore it, but the dreams grew more persistent. One morning, after waking from a particularly vivid nightmare, she found a small, silver key tucked inside her pillowcase. It was old, worn by time, and etched with strange symbols that looked like they belonged to another language. She didn’t remember putting it there. Curiosity got the better of her. She began to research the village, searching for any records or folklore that might explain what she was seeing. But no one had ever heard of such a place. Even the oldest maps lacked the valley she described. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was real, that it had always been real. One night, she decided to follow the dream. She closed her eyes, focused on the village, and let herself fall asleep. When she opened them again, she was standing in the middle of the street, the same as before. The air felt heavier here, as if the world itself was holding its breath. She walked toward the well, her heart pounding. As she approached, the water began to ripple, though there was no wind. A voice whispered from below, soft and melodic, like the echo of a song long forgotten. "You are not the first," it said. "And you will not be the last." Clara froze. "Who are you?" she asked, though she wasn't sure if she wanted an answer. The voice did not reply. Instead, the water rose, forming shapes—figures that moved like smoke, their faces blurred and shifting. They reached out, but not with hands. With something else. Something that made her skin crawl. She stumbled back, knocking over a wooden bench that had not been there before. When she woke up, her hands were covered in dirt, and the key was gone. But the next day, she found a note tucked inside her journal. It was written in the same hand as the symbols on the key. "The door is open. You must decide whether to go through." Days passed, and the dreams became more frequent. Each time, the village changed slightly—buildings shifted, the sky darkened, the well’s water turned black. The figures grew clearer, their whispers more urgent. They spoke of something buried beneath the ground, something that had been waiting for someone to find it. One night, she returned to the village, determined to see what lay beyond the well. The moment she stepped closer, the ground trembled. The water surged upward, forming a spiral that pulled her forward. She tried to resist, but the pull was stronger than her will. Her body moved without her consent, falling into the depths. She landed in a vast underground chamber, lit by an eerie glow that came from the walls themselves. The air was cool and still, and the silence was absolute. In the center of the room stood a door, carved from the same stone as the well. It was sealed with a lock that matched the key she had lost. With trembling fingers, she inserted the key. The lock clicked open, and the door groaned as it swung inward. Beyond it, there was nothing. Just darkness, stretching endlessly in all directions. But then, a light flickered. Not from the walls, but from within her. A soft, golden glow spread across her chest, illuminating the space around her. The figures from the dreams appeared again, this time standing in a circle, watching her. "You have come," they said in unison. "Now, you must choose." Clara didn’t know what choice they meant. But as the light grew brighter, she realized that the dream had never been about the village. It had been about her. About the thing inside her that had been waiting, too, for someone to find it.