Whispers in the Wind: The Unseen Watcher in Lila's Dreams
Every night, the dreams came. Not in a regular pattern, but always with the same feeling—like something was watching, waiting, just beyond the edge of awareness. Lila had never been one for superstitions, but as the weeks passed, she began to wonder if there was more to her dreams than just sleep.
They started with the sound of wind. A low, whispering hum that curled around her like smoke. She would wake up drenched in sweat, her sheets tangled and cold. The first time it happened, she thought it was a nightmare, but the second time, she noticed something strange: the room was still. No breeze, no moving curtains, yet the sound lingered, like a memory of something that had once been real.
The dreams themselves were always different. One night, she stood in a field of black grass, the sky above a deep indigo that pulsed like a heartbeat. Another time, she was walking through a city made of mirrors, each reflection showing a version of herself that didn’t smile. But the most persistent dream was the one where she stood at the edge of a forest, the trees leaning in as if they were listening. At the center of the clearing, there was a stone archway, carved with symbols that seemed to shift when she looked away.
She tried to ignore it. She told herself it was stress, or lack of sleep, or maybe even an overactive imagination. But the dreams kept coming, growing more vivid, more detailed. She could feel the texture of the bark on the trees, smell the damp earth, hear the distant echo of footsteps that weren’t hers. It was like the dreams were trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t understand the language.
One morning, she found a small, smooth stone in her hand, though she had no memory of picking it up. It was warm, almost alive, and covered in faint etchings that looked like the symbols from the dream. She held it in her palm, tracing the lines with her fingers, and felt a shiver run down her spine. The mark was not there before.
That night, she decided to stay awake. She sat by the window, sipping tea and flipping through old books, determined to resist the pull of sleep. But as the hours passed, her eyelids grew heavy, and the world around her blurred. She wasn’t sure how long she had been asleep when she opened her eyes again, but now she was standing in the forest, the same stone archway looming ahead.
This time, she walked through it.
On the other side, the air was thick with silence. The ground beneath her feet was soft, almost like moss, and the trees were taller, their trunks twisted into impossible shapes. In the distance, she saw a figure. Not human, not animal—just a silhouette, moving slowly, as if it were waiting for her.
She took a step forward, then another. The figure turned. Its face was hidden, but its eyes glowed faintly, like embers in the dark. It raised a hand, and the world around her shifted. The trees bent inward, the sky darkened, and the air grew colder. She tried to move, but her legs wouldn’t obey.
Then she woke up.
She was lying on the floor, the stone still in her hand. Her heart pounded, her breath came in short gasps. She looked around the room, half-expecting to see something strange, but everything was normal. Or so she thought.
Days passed, and the dreams became more frequent. Each time, the archway appeared, each time the figure waited. She began to notice patterns—small details that repeated in every dream. The way the light filtered through the leaves, the scent of rain before a storm, the sound of a bell that never rang. It was like the dreams were building toward something, guiding her toward a revelation she wasn’t ready for.
One night, she decided to go back. She closed her eyes, focused on the image of the archway, and let herself fall into the dream. This time, she didn’t hesitate. She walked through the arch, past the trees, toward the figure.
When she reached it, the figure spoke, but not in words. It was a sensation, a feeling that filled her mind. It wasn’t fear, nor was it comfort. It was understanding. A truth that was too vast to fully grasp, but she knew it was important.
Then, the dream ended. She woke up again, this time with a strange clarity. The stone in her hand had changed. The etchings were gone, replaced by something else—something new, something she didn’t recognize.
She didn’t know what the dreams meant. She didn’t know if they were a message, a warning, or just the workings of her subconscious. But she knew one thing: they weren’t finished with her yet.
And as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, she wondered if the next dream would be the last one.
Published on en