A cool, almost wet pressure brushes against my skin; my limbs lie inert, as if rendered weightless and unresponsive. There is no preamble, no gradual coming‐to‐consciousness-only a raw surge of existence. The world, if it can be called that, is a tapestry of muted darkness and sporadic glimmers: a lone, quivering flame somewhere overhead; the subtle, almost imperceptible patter of something akin to rain, or tears, or both.
In this nebulous state, shapes dissolve and reassemble without warning. I do not wonder where I am-questions fade into the hum of a deep, throbbing pulse beneath my ribs. I simply am. A taste of salt lingers on my tongue, a tang that is neither pleasant nor repulsive but simply present-a flavor that speaks of water, of distance, of memory. And then, abruptly, the dark gives way to a splinter of silver light.
Rain lashes without mercy, each droplet scattering brilliant shards of silver in midair. I glimpse a narrow glen: a secret enclave amid a wild, storm-tossed world. There, under the shelter of a sprawling oak whose limbs twist against a sky churned gray and tempestuous, she stands. Aveline. I see her without any reason or warning, as if she materialized from the very rain itself.
Aveline’s presence is fleeting and untamed. The rain enlivens her features-a sudden blush on her cheeks, the way her hair, dark and damp, clings to her face in delicate rivulets. Her eyes, luminous in the pale light, do not speak; they only flicker with something unnameable-a quiet, desperate beauty. Without a word, her hand reaches toward mine, trembling as it makes contact. The sensation is raw-a burst of cool, shivering touch that fades as quickly as it comes. There is no explanation, no dialogue; only the palpable intensity of that brief, ghostlike meeting.
Then the rain shifts. The scene shudders and dissolves into another moment: an endless corridor of dripping shadows and half-remembered colors. I find myself seated at a rough-hewn table, its surface slick with condensation. Outside, droplets trace erratic paths across a fogged window. The air is dense with the scent of wet earth and old stone. No voices-only the soft, relentless murmur of water on glass and the echo of my own muted heartbeat. I watch a single droplet meander along the pane, its slow descent measured in tiny, deliberate intervals, each pause a lifetime.
There is no conscious reflection here. I see, I feel, I am. Memories bleed into the present without ceremony-a sudden vision of a field, the ground soft and yielding beneath bare feet. I see Aveline again, standing in that field under a sky heavy with unspent storms. The wind stirs, and in its gusts, I catch the faint sound of her laughter-a sound as transient as a sigh, carried off before it can be grasped. Her image shimmers, like a watercolor left out in the rain, its edges blurred and fading. I do not dwell on the sadness that laces her face; I only register the cool dampness of the air, the rich, loamy aroma of wet grass, and the subtle tremor of her presence as it flits past like a half-remembered melody.
Then-without preamble-the scene fractures again. Now I wander through a twilight garden, where the edges of shadow and light blend into a surreal panorama. The garden is overgrown, wild in its abandon; moonlight filters through tangled branches, painting the ground in mottled silver. It is here that I first see her-Soraya. She appears at once as if summoned by an unspoken command: her figure is luminous against the encroaching dark, a sudden, radiant burst of color in a monochrome world. I catch the fleeting brush of her hand as it reaches toward a blooming rose; the contact is electric, brief, leaving a trace of warmth that flares and dissipates in the cool night air.
Soraya’s eyes hold the mystery of countless, uncharted galaxies, and for a moment, I am lost in their depths. A silent spark ignites, an ineffable pull that is both soothing and unsettling. I cannot say how or why this connection sears into existence-it simply is, a raw and unbidden meeting of two halves in the half-light of a garden that exists only in the folds of memory. A stray petal drifts between us; for an instant, the petal trembles in the space between light and shadow before succumbing to gravity and falling, unnoticed.
In a sudden rush, the garden shatters into fragments. I find myself drifting along a narrow path beneath a sky smeared with dark clouds. Rain begins again-this time a soft, insistent murmur rather than a deluge-and the sound is intermingled with something else: the muted echo of footsteps, the brush of fabric, the faint, irregular beat of a heart. I cannot tell whether these are mine or those of the past. They merge into a single, swirling current that carries me onward, unmoored and without destination.
I pass through a threshold-a door, a passage, a mere suggestion of one-and enter a room lit only by the trembling glow of a solitary candle. The light casts dancing, ephemeral shapes on the ceiling, and I watch, transfixed, as the patterns shift in irregular rhythms. There is no logic to it; the shapes appear and vanish like flickers of a half-remembered dream. I lean in, my eyes tracking the unpredictable flight of the tiny orbs of light, the silent ballet of illumination and shadow.
Without warning, my surroundings constrict. The space presses in upon me-walls become tangible, the ground beneath feels more solid-and a strange, enveloping pressure makes itself known. My throat tightens, and I struggle to draw in a full breath. There is no panic, only an overwhelming, abstract sensation of being caught in a slow, inevitable collapse. The gentle pressure becomes a force, silent and persistent, pinning me in place. The candle’s flame wavers as if in sympathy, its light quivering across the ceiling like the beat of a distant, faltering heart.
Images surge unbidden now-rapid flashes that merge and scatter without order. I see Aveline’s fragile smile as rain cascades over her face; I glimpse Soraya’s luminous eyes, now clouded and stormy. The colors and sounds swirl into an overwhelming medley: the soft patter of rain on a cold, dark surface, the fleeting touch of hands, the bitter taste of salt on my tongue. Each sensation crashes into the next without warning, a torrent that leaves no room for reflection or clarity.
My body feels heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible tide. Movements that once came with ease are now sluggish, each attempt at motion met with a disconcerting resistance. There is no dialogue in my mind, no internal commentary-only the raw, pure experience of being overwhelmed by sensations that rise like a tide and threaten to consume me entirely. I sense the pressure in my chest intensify, a slow, inexorable squeeze that leaves no space for sound, no space for thought.
In the midst of this sensory conflagration, I become aware of a curious detail-a scattering of small, luminous bubbles drifting upward. They appear suddenly, as if summoned by the interplay of flickering candlelight and the soft murmur of an unseen current. Each bubble shimmers briefly, catching the stray light and holding it for an instant before releasing it into the void. I watch them without thought, their silent journey upward the only motion that seems to defy the stasis of my body.
Time itself seems to unravel. Moments stretch and compress without warning. I see, in a sudden burst, an image of a field drenched in rain-the damp earth, the trembling leaves, a fleeting glimpse of a face too delicate for this world. Then another flash: a dark corridor lined with memories, the air heavy with the scent of rain and lost laughter. There is no seamless narrative here, only fragments that collide and merge-a kaleidoscope of sensation, memory, and overwhelming presence.
I feel an undercurrent, a subtle, disorienting force that tugs at the edges of my consciousness. There is no conscious realization, no internal analysis-only the pure, unfiltered experience of drifting, of being pulled in directions I cannot name. The boundaries between what is real and what is memory blur into one amorphous mass, an endless sea in which details dissolve and reassemble without warning. The taste of salt, the chill of unseen water, the echo of distant laughter-they all merge into a single, overwhelming moment.
I do not think. I do not plan. I simply am, adrift in a current of sensations that surge and recede without mercy. My chest tightens further, and I feel the slow, deliberate constriction of my throat as though a soft, unseen hand is closing in. Each inhalation is shallower than the last, the effort to breathe merging with the dense tapestry of images and sounds around me.
The gentle, persistent glow of the solitary candle flickers again-and I see, for a brief, heart-stopping instant, the rising bubbles carrying a glimmer of light. They float upward, a chaotic dance against the oppressive dark, their brief illumination merging with the patterns on the ceiling. There is a beauty in their movement-a beauty so transient that it seems almost sacrilegious in its purity. Yet there is no time to admire; the sensations swell until they become an indistinct roar, an ever-present tide that seems to pull me inexorably toward a final, unspoken end.
I close my eyes-not out of resignation, but because the onslaught of images, tastes, and textures overwhelms all other thoughts. In that darkness behind my lids, the world is reduced to a single, throbbing pulse-the rhythm of my heart echoing the slow, relentless beat of a tide. There is no narrative, no clarity; only the raw, unmediated experience of a moment stretching into infinity.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the surge of sensations blurs into an undifferentiated haze. I feel nothing but the soft, relentless pressure that binds me, the cool dampness that saturates every breath. The rising bubbles, the trembling candlelight, the taste of salt-they all merge into a singular, unyielding presence. I drift, unmoored and without direction, lost in a void where even memory itself seems to have no anchor.
There is no return, only the soft erosion of boundaries. Memory bleeds into the present, and the present fractures into something less than real. The weight in my chest thickens, not like drowning, but like sinking, like my body has forgotten the function of air, the concept of lightness. I try to move, and my limbs resist, the air thick as water.
Aveline stands in the rain again. No, not stands-wavers. She flickers, her shape dissolving between the drops, her edges blurred as if the rain itself is washing her from the world. Her gaze is fixed on something beyond me, something I cannot turn to see.
She opens her mouth to speak, but the words never reach me. The rain swallows them, drowns them in its endless descent. I step forward-at least, I think I do-but she does not close the distance. It is as though I am trapped beneath glass, pressing my palm against something invisible and unyielding. Her mouth moves again, but I hear nothing, nothing but the rain and the soft, aching hum of something vast and empty behind my ribs.
Then the scene collapses.
I do not fall, but the world shifts around me, the rain thinning, breaking apart into silver filaments that stretch into the dark. I am moving without motion, drawn forward along a corridor that is not there, that exists only in sensation-the faint, uneven texture of stone beneath my fingertips, the distant pulse of something alive and unseen beneath my feet.
A candle flickers, and suddenly I am sitting in a dimly lit room, walls lined with old books, the scent of dust and ink clinging to the air. A single cup rests on the table before me, its contents untouched, swirling faintly with the movement of unseen currents. The chair across from me is occupied.
Soraya.
She watches me in silence, her gaze unfathomable, unreadable. The candlelight paints shifting shadows across her features, illuminating the delicate angles of her face, the soft line of her jaw, the ghost of something-amusement? Sorrow?-in the corners of her lips.
She lifts the cup to her lips, takes a slow sip.
I want to speak, but the weight in my chest has not lifted. My throat is thick with silence, with something unsaid, something I do not even have the language to name.
Her gaze holds mine. A long moment stretches between us, an unspoken question threading through the dim glow of the candlelight. I do not know the question. I do not know if she does, either.
The candle wavers.
And then I am outside again, beneath a sky that does not know the concept of dawn. The ground beneath me is soft, damp, like the world has been weeping for too long and has forgotten how to dry. My feet sink slightly into the loam as I walk, though I do not know where I am going. The horizon does not exist here-only the soft blur of shadow and mist, stretching into a place I cannot reach.
I glance to my left, and Aveline is walking beside me. Or perhaps she has always been there.
Her hand brushes mine, the lightest touch, brief as a breath. My fingers twitch in response, instinctive, reaching, but she has already pulled away, her gaze fixed forward, unreadable.
"I had a dream," she says softly, and the words carry more weight than they should, as though they are an admission, a confession.
I wait.
She hesitates. Then-
"I dreamed I was drowning. But it wasn’t water. It was… light. It filled my lungs, burned in my throat. I couldn’t breathe, but I wasn’t afraid. Isn’t that strange?"
Her voice is quiet, as if she is speaking more to the air than to me.
A pause.
"Do you think dreams mean something?"
I do not answer. I do not know if she expects me to.
The world shifts again.
I am in a house. No-just the bones of one. A ruin, hollow and abandoned, its walls more air than structure. The ceiling is open to the sky, or what passes for it-a vast stretch of darkness, stitched with faint, flickering lights that pulse in a slow, rhythmic pattern. I watch them, mesmerized, before realizing the pattern is familiar. A heartbeat.
My heartbeat.
I shudder.
Footsteps echo through the empty space, though I see no one. The walls breathe, expand, contract, as though the house itself is alive, as though it is watching me. A single chair sits in the center of the room, facing nothing, waiting.
A soft exhale.
Soraya’s voice.
"Do you know why you’re here?"
I turn. She is standing in the doorway-if it can be called that-her silhouette outlined in the not-light. Her expression is unreadable, but something in her posture feels like expectation.
I do not answer. I do not know the answer.
A shift, a flicker.
Rain begins to fall through the broken ceiling, slow at first, then heavier, until the air is thick with it, until the sound drowns everything else.
Aveline steps into the rain, her head tilted back, eyes closed. She does not seem to mind the cold.
"I think," she murmurs, "I have always been waiting."
The rain clings to her lashes, traces the curve of her cheek like a lover’s touch.
I reach for her-
Darkness.
Not absence, not void. Something else. Something deeper.
A sensation, slow and creeping. A weight pressing against my chest, familiar and foreign all at once. The edges of myself blur, dissolve. I cannot tell where I end and where the world begins; something indefinable yet achingly familiar. A whisper of a name-half-formed, lost before it reaches my lips. The pressure ebbs, then surges again, a tide that threatens to pull me under. And yet-just as the last vestiges of light seem ready to fold into the dark-I catch the faintest sensation of warmth against my fingertips, an echo of touch, or memory, or both.
Somewhere, beyond the veil of knowing, rain still falls.