Every night, the dreams came. Not in a way that made her wake up screaming or trembling, but in a slow, creeping way that left her unsettled for days. Mira had never been a dreamer, not really. She was a quiet woman who lived alone in a small cottage at the edge of a forest, working as a bookseller in a town that rarely saw more than a few visitors a week. But something had changed. The dreams were different now—clearer, more vivid, and strangely familiar. They always began with the same place: a long hallway lined with mirrors. Each mirror reflected a different version of herself, some older, some younger, some with eyes that didn’t match their faces. She would walk down the hall, her footsteps echoing as if the floor were made of hollow wood. At the end of the hallway, there was a door, always closed, always slightly ajar. When she reached it, the air would grow colder, and the silence would deepen until it felt like the world itself had stopped breathing. Inside the room, everything was still. A single chair sat in the center, facing a window that looked out onto a field of white flowers. The flowers swayed even though there was no wind. Mira would sit in the chair, and the moment she did, the dreams would shift. She would find herself standing outside the cottage, watching her own reflection in the window. She would see herself walking inside, closing the door behind her, and then the dream would end. The next morning, she would wake up with the same strange feeling—the sense that something had happened, but she couldn’t remember what. She tried to write them down, but the details always slipped away like water through her fingers. She told no one about the dreams, not even the old man who ran the bakery and sometimes brought her tea. He was kind, but he had his own secrets, and Mira didn’t want to burden him with something she couldn’t explain. One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in hues of orange and violet, Mira decided to follow the dream. She waited until the moon was high and the forest around her was silent. Then she walked toward the edge of the woods, where the trees grew thick and gnarled. She had never gone this far before, but the dream had led her here. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, almost like burnt sugar. She found a small clearing, and in the center stood a door, exactly as she had seen in the dream. It was wooden, weathered, and covered in ivy. Her hand trembled as she touched the handle. It was warm, as if it had been used recently. With a deep breath, she pushed it open. Inside, the room was exactly as she remembered. The chair, the window, the white flowers. But when she stepped inside, the world shifted. The walls seemed to pulse, and the air felt heavy, like she was submerged in something invisible. The flowers outside the window moved faster now, their petals swirling in patterns she couldn’t understand. Then she heard a voice. It wasn’t loud, but it was clear, and it called her by name. “Mira,” it said, soft and melodic, like a lullaby. She turned, expecting to see someone, but the room was empty. The voice came again, and this time it was closer, right behind her. “You’ve come back.” She spun around, but there was nothing there. The chair was still in the center of the room, and the window still showed the field of white flowers. But now, the flowers had begun to bloom in her direction, as if they recognized her. She ran back to the door, heart pounding, and stumbled out into the forest. The air was colder now, and the trees loomed taller, their branches twisting like skeletal fingers. She didn’t stop running until she reached her cottage, where she locked the door and collapsed on the floor. That night, the dream returned—but this time, the door was open. And in the chair sat a version of herself, smiling faintly. “You’re late,” it said. Mira woke up with a gasp, her hands shaking. She stared at the ceiling, wondering if she had truly been there, or if it had all been a trick of her mind. But deep down, she knew the truth. The dreams weren’t just dreams. They were something else—something waiting. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what came next.