Every night, the dreams came. Not in a way that felt familiar, but as if they were pieces of something ancient and forgotten, slipping into her mind like whispers from another world. Mira had always been a quiet person, the kind who preferred books to conversations, shadows to light. She never believed in ghosts or spirits, but she couldn’t explain what happened when she fell asleep. The first time it happened, she was dreaming of a forest. Not just any forest—thick with mist, trees leaning like old men hunched over, their bark etched with symbols she didn’t recognize. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, almost like burnt sugar. She walked through the trees, barefoot, feeling the cold soil between her toes. When she reached a clearing, there was a figure standing at the center, back turned. It wasn’t human, not exactly. Its shape shifted, as though it were made of smoke and shadow, but its presence was undeniable. Mira woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding. She told herself it was just a dream. But the next night, it came again, more vivid. This time, the figure turned slowly. Its face was smooth, featureless, but she could feel its gaze on her. It didn’t speak, but she understood its message: *You are not meant to be here.* She tried to ignore it, convincing herself it was stress or something she’d read before. But the dreams grew more frequent, more detailed. She began to notice things in the real world that mirrored the dream world. A symbol carved into a tree near her house, the same one she saw in the forest. A scent in the air that wasn’t quite right, like the forest’s perfume. She started seeing people who looked like the figures in her dreams—people with too still eyes, moving as if they weren’t entirely there. One night, she found herself walking through the forest again, but this time, she wasn’t dreaming. The trees loomed higher, the mist thicker, and the air heavier. She felt a pull, an invisible thread guiding her deeper. When she reached the clearing, the figure was waiting, now more defined. It had a voice, low and resonant, like wind through stone. “You have come back,” it said. “Why?” “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I keep having these dreams. I thought they were just… dreams.” The figure tilted its head. “Dreams are not just dreams. They are echoes. You have been called before.” Mira’s breath caught. “Called? By what?” The figure stepped closer, and for the first time, she saw its eyes. They were dark, endless, reflecting the sky above. “By the ones who remember. The ones who wait.” She wanted to run, but her body wouldn’t move. The figure extended a hand, and suddenly, she was no longer in the forest. She stood in a place that looked like the inside of a mirror, a reflection of everything she had ever known. Her childhood home, the library where she spent hours, the park where she used to sit alone. All of it was there, but distorted, as if viewed through water. “Do you see?” the figure asked. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You are not from here. You were never meant to stay.” The words struck her like a blow. She had always felt out of place, like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit. But she had never imagined it could be because she didn’t belong in this world at all. The figure’s form began to dissolve, fading into the mist. “You will return again. But next time, you may not wake up.” When Mira opened her eyes, she was back in her bed, the room silent, the clock showing 3:17 AM. She sat up, trembling. The dreams had stopped. Or had they? Days passed, and she tried to forget. But the signs remained. The symbol on the tree, the strange scent, the people with empty eyes. She began to notice more. A mirror that showed a different reflection, a door that led nowhere, a sound that echoed when no one was around. One night, she decided to go back. She followed the path she remembered, the one that led to the forest. The trees were taller, the mist denser. When she reached the clearing, the figure was waiting, but this time, it was not alone. A circle of figures surrounded the clearing, each one different, yet connected. They watched her, not with malice, but with expectation. She realized then that they were not creatures of the dream—they were echoes, fragments of those who had come before her, lost in the same mystery. The figure spoke again, softer this time. “You are not alone. You have always been part of this.” Mira didn’t know what to say. She had spent her life searching for something she didn’t understand. Now, she stood at the edge of it, unsure if she was ready to step forward. As she turned to leave, the figures whispered in unison, their voices blending into a single, haunting melody. She didn’t know if they were calling her back or warning her away. And as she walked away from the forest, she wondered—had she truly left, or had she only begun to enter?