Every night, the dreams came. Not in a consistent pattern, but always with the same unsettling quality—like something was watching, waiting, and whispering just beyond the edge of memory. Clara had never been one for strange dreams, but lately, they had become impossible to ignore. It started with the sound. A low hum, like the distant echo of a forgotten lullaby, drifting through her sleep. She would wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, unable to remember what she had dreamed. But the feeling lingered—a sense of being watched, as if something unseen had been there all along, just beneath the surface of her consciousness. One evening, she found herself standing in a hallway that didn’t exist. The walls were made of smooth, pale stone, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and decay. The floor was cracked, and small pools of water pooled in the crevices, reflecting the dim light from an unseen source. She walked forward, her footsteps echoing strangely, as if the space itself was alive. In the distance, a door stood ajar. It was old, wooden, with intricate carvings that seemed to shift when she looked away. Clara hesitated, then reached out. Her fingers brushed the wood, and the moment she touched it, the world around her flickered. The hallway dissolved, and she was standing in a room filled with mirrors. Each one showed a different version of herself—some older, some younger, some with eyes that stared back without blinking. She turned, and the mirror behind her reflected a figure standing just behind her. When she turned again, it was gone. Her breath caught in her throat. She could feel it now—something was here, not just in the dream, but in the space between sleep and waking. The next morning, she woke up with a headache and a strange taste in her mouth. She tried to forget the dream, but it clung to her mind like smoke. That night, the dream returned. This time, she was in a forest. The trees were tall and twisted, their branches forming a canopy so dense that no sunlight could penetrate. The ground was soft underfoot, and every step she took left behind a faint, glowing trail that faded as soon as it touched the earth. She heard a voice, low and familiar, calling her name. It wasn’t her own voice, but it sounded like someone she once knew. She followed the sound, deeper into the woods, until she reached a clearing. In the center stood a tree, its bark covered in symbols that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air around it was thick with energy, and as she approached, the symbols began to glow. Suddenly, the dream shifted again. She was back in her bedroom, but everything was wrong. The furniture was slightly off, the colors too vivid, the shadows too deep. She sat up in bed, gasping, and realized she hadn’t moved at all. Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone. The time read 3:17 AM. Over the following weeks, the dreams grew more frequent and more detailed. Each one felt more real than the last, as if she was being pulled into something she couldn’t fully understand. She began to notice strange things in the waking world—objects that moved on their own, whispers in empty rooms, and the feeling of being followed even when alone. One night, she decided to stay awake. She sat by the window, staring into the dark, waiting for the dream to come. Hours passed, and nothing happened. Then, slowly, the room began to change. The walls shimmered, and the air grew colder. She felt a presence, not threatening, but insistent. It was like the dream had been waiting for her to be ready. She closed her eyes. The world around her dissolved, and she was back in the forest. This time, the voice called her by name. “Clara,” it said, and she turned to see a figure standing at the edge of the clearing. It was her, but not quite. The figure stepped forward, and the symbols on the tree flared to life. “Why do you keep coming back?” the figure asked, its voice both familiar and foreign. “I don’t know,” Clara whispered. “I just… I can’t stop.” The figure tilted its head, as if considering her words. Then it reached out, and the dream ended. She woke up in her bed, confused and disoriented. The room was quiet, the air still. But something had changed. She could feel it in her bones. The dreams weren’t just visions—they were a message. And she was running out of time to understand what it meant.