Every night, she dreamed of the same place. A quiet village nestled between two mountains, its streets paved with black stones that gleamed like oil under a pale moon. The air was always thick with the scent of damp earth and burning cedar. She would walk through the village, her feet making no sound on the stones, as if the ground itself were holding its breath. The people in the dreams never spoke. They moved in slow, deliberate motions, their faces half-hidden by shadows or veiled in mist. Sometimes they would look directly at her, eyes hollow and empty, but they never reached out. She would try to call to them, but her voice was swallowed by the silence. It was not fear that made her heart race—it was something else, something deeper, like recognition. She had started having these dreams after moving into the old house on the edge of town. It was a place that had been abandoned for years, its windows boarded up, its garden overgrown with thorny vines. The realtor had said it was just an old property, nothing special. But when she first stepped inside, she felt a chill crawl up her spine, as though the walls themselves were watching her. The house had a peculiar way of changing. The furniture would shift positions overnight, the door handles would feel colder than they should be, and sometimes, when she woke up, the clock on the wall would be showing a different time. She tried not to think about it, but the dreams kept coming. Each night, the village grew more vivid, more real. The details became sharper—she could see the cracks in the stone walls, the flicker of lanterns in the distance, the way the trees swayed even when there was no wind. One night, she found herself standing at the edge of the village square. A large wooden gate stood before her, carved with symbols she didn’t recognize. When she touched it, the wood felt warm, almost alive. The moment her fingers met the surface, the world around her shifted. The sky turned a deep violet, and the stars blinked in patterns she couldn’t understand. She heard a whisper, soft and low, like the rustle of leaves in a forgotten forest. "Come home," it said. She didn’t know what to do. Her legs moved on their own, carrying her through the gate. Inside, the village was different now. The buildings were taller, the streets wider, and the air carried a strange hum, like a song just out of reach. She wandered through the alleys, past houses with broken shutters and gardens where flowers bloomed in unnatural colors. At the center of the village stood a great tree, its branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. As she approached, the whispers grew louder. They weren’t just voices—they were memories. Fragments of lives she had never lived, emotions she had never felt. She saw a child laughing beneath the tree, a woman weeping in the rain, a man standing alone with his back to the world. The dreams had never shown her this before. Then, a figure appeared. It was tall and thin, wrapped in a cloak that seemed to ripple like water. Its face was obscured, but she could feel its gaze on her. "You are not meant to be here," it said, its voice echoing in her mind rather than her ears. "I don’t know how I got here," she replied, her voice trembling. "You have always been here," the figure whispered. "You just forgot." She felt a sudden pull, as if the ground beneath her was trying to swallow her whole. The village began to fade, the buildings dissolving into mist. The tree shrank, its branches collapsing inward. The last thing she saw was the figure reaching out, its hand brushing against her cheek before everything went black. She woke up in her bed, drenched in sweat. The room was silent, the only sound the ticking of the clock. But something was different. The house felt lighter, the air less heavy. She looked around, expecting to see the familiar walls, but instead, she saw the faint outline of a path leading from her window to the forest beyond. She never had the dream again. But sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she could hear the whisper of the village, calling her name. And every night, she wondered—had she truly left, or had she just forgotten?