"𝔻𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕕𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕡𝕖𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕀 𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕨𝕠𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕤 𝕟𝕠 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕕𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖." — 𝔼𝕕𝕘𝕒𝕣 𝔸𝕝𝕝𝕒𝕟 ℙ𝕠𝕖
Alice awoke to a numbing pain, her wrists aching beneath the burning etch of strange markings. Bruises darkened her thighs and stomach, tender beneath even the slightest movement. The details of the night before were a void, an unsettling blank space in her mind. Her breath hitched—her surroundings were tight, unforgiving. Her trembling fingers traced the rough, splintered wood of the coffin's interior. Cold, unyielding. She swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust.
The stagnant air inside the Eternal Repose morgue was thick with the acrid sting of disinfectant and the faint, decaying whisper of old wood. The scent curled in her nose, clinging to her skin like something unwelcome. She shifted, but every movement sent pain rippling through her limbs, pressing her further into the suffocating embrace of her enclosure.
Above her, beyond the coffin's confines, the morgue stretched into an eerie silence. A single clock hung on the far wall, its hands creeping toward 3:30 a.m. The rhythmic ticking echoed unnaturally loud, each second drilling into her skull. It was always this hour—always this time—when her mother locked her away.
A sharp creak disrupted the silence. Was it the building settling? A whisper of movement beyond the walls? She strained to listen, ears tuned to the shifting quiet, but the pounding of her pulse in her ears made it impossible to tell.
Memories surged, unbidden. Earlier that day, she had gone through the motions—cleaning the dead, disinfecting their pale skin, smoothing their features into something resembling peace. The crisp scent of embalming fluid had hung in the air, sharp and sterile. She knew the process by heart: preparation, cleansing, embalming, final arrangements. The ritual of handling death had become routine.
But now, she was inside.
How had she ended up here?
Her fingers curled into the splintered coffin wall, nails scraping against the rough grain. The irony was bitter—she had spent years preparing the dead, yet somehow, in ways she couldn't yet understand, she had prepared herself.
Her breathing grew shallow. Panic clawed at her ribs. Had her sleep terrors returned? Or was something far worse at play? The past and present blurred, the sterile procedures of death intertwining with the horrors of her youth.
She dared not move.
She dared not breathe.
And somewhere in the depths of the morgue, the clock continued its relentless ticking.
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Dean woke to the sharp buzz of his alarm at 3:30 a.m., the piercing sound cutting through the quiet of his loft-type apartment. With a groggy sigh, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stretched, his muscles protesting the early hour. The scent of stale coffee lingered in the air—yesterday's failed attempt at staying awake long enough to finish revisions.
Dragging himself to the kitchen, he flicked on the coffee machine and watched as the dark liquid dripped into his mug. Today was important. He needed to finish his script revisions and send them to his editor. If he worked efficiently, he could submit them before noon. He wanted everything squared away, because by afternoon, he had plans—another date with Alice.
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By 1pm, Dean found himself standing outside the towering gates of his old university. Nostalgia settled in his chest as he glanced at the sprawling campus, the weathered stone walls still carrying whispers of his youth.
Alice arrived moments later, wrapped in a thick coat and clad in black boots. She shivered slightly against the crisp air, her gloved hands tucked into her pockets.
"This place has history," she mused, taking in the ivy-laced archways and the grand library ahead of them.
Dean grinned. "Wait until you see the reading room."
They wound their way through corridors filled with aged wooden bookshelves until they reached a tucked-away archive—a space rarely visited, hidden deep within the university's labyrinthine halls.
Inside, dust motes floated in the beams of light breaking through the stained-glass windows. Manuscripts lined the walls, untouched by time, filled with forgotten stories that never saw publication.
"This," Dean gestured around them, "is where words come to rest when they fail to find a voice."
Alice ran her fingers over the cracked leather spines of old books, pulling one from the shelf at random. As she flipped through the brittle pages, her eyes landed on a passage, her brow furrowing.
"This... feels familiar," she murmured, looking up at him.
Dean's heartbeat stumbled. He knew exactly what she had found—but he said nothing.
As they browsed further, Alice's gaze landed on an unusual book. Its cover bore faint carvings, hidden beneath layers of dust and time-worn etching.
"This is strange..." she whispered, tracing the indentation. The shape was unmistakable—it had once held something within its hollowed pages.
A gun.
Yet there was no trace left, only the imprint of what had been.
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Later, as they sat in the dim glow of the library, Dean reached into his bag and pulled out a glass dome. Inside, a preserved red rose stood frozen in time, its delicate petals cradled around a small, dancing white rabbit.
Alice gasped softly, her fingers brushing the smooth glass surface.
"The key to unlock the mechanism," Dean explained, "is a Queen of Hearts card. Just insert it into the slot below, and it spins like a music box."
He handed her the dome carefully, meeting her gaze. "For the lady with a peculiar taste," he said with a smile. "I hope you remember me when you watch and listen to this gift."
Alice's eyes shimmered with warmth. She pressed the gift to her chest before wrapping her arms around him. "This is really special," she whispered. "Thank you, Dean."
For a moment, he was still, absorbing the gentle press of her embrace. Then he spoke, voice hushed yet certain.
"Alice... I think I'm really beginning to see you in a deeper way."
As the hours passed, their laughter settled into quiet conversations, their words lingering longer, holding more weight. The space between them shrank as their thoughts intertwined, as unspoken emotions crept through every glance and touch.
Something was happening.
Something neither of them had planned—yet neither seemed eager to stop.
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As they walked up to Alice's apartment building, the streetlights cast elongated shadows against the pavement. The cool night breeze wrapped around them, laced with the distant murmur of the city's heartbeat. Dean hesitated as she reached for her keys, something gnawing at him beneath the surface of his thoughts.
Then, without thinking, he gently grabbed Alice's arm.
His touch was meant to be tender, meant to hold her in place just a second longer—but his eyes widened as his gaze fell upon the fresh bruises dotting her skin.
"Alice," his voice dropped, laced with concern. "Why do you have these bruises again?" His grip tightened ever so slightly before he released her. "Just tell me—who's bothering you? I can help you."
Alice held her breath, weighing her answer in the silence between them. Then, she forced a small smile. "It's nothing, Dean. You don't need to worry."
Dean wasn't convinced. "Do you have a medicine kit inside?" His voice was soft, cautious. "Can I come in?"
She hesitated at the door. The air between them was thick, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on her. But after a moment, she exhaled and nodded.
Inside, Alice flicked on the warm glow of a lamp, filling the small apartment with an inviting light.
"I actually have a small cat," she said as she walked toward the couch. "Salem—come here, cutie." She crouched slightly, beckoning the feline forward. A sleek black cat emerged from the shadows, its eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Dean chuckled. "Salem? Let me guess—you're a fan of Sabrina?"
Alice smirked. "Obviously."
"The teenage witch or the darker, Chilling Adventures version?"
Alice gave him a knowing look. "The darker one."
Dean grinned. "Figures."
He crouched to pet the cat, but Salem merely hissed at him before darting behind the couch. Undeterred, Dean reached for an unopened carton of milk sitting on the kitchen counter and poured some into a small dish.
Salem sniffed the offering, flicked her tail, and promptly ignored it.
Dean laughed. "Salem sure has her owner's temper."
Alice gasped in mock offense. "Hey! Watch it!"
Still grinning, Dean leaned back against the armrest. "Anyway, I believe I'm here to treat and pamper you, right?"
She rolled her eyes but handed him the medicine kit nonetheless.
Dean took it carefully, settling beside her. His fingers brushed against her wrist as he opened a small tube of ointment, applying it gently across her bruised skin. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost reverent—as if each touch was an apology for something he couldn't name.
Alice remained quiet, watching him.
When he reached for another bandage, their gazes met. It wasn't planned. It wasn't forced.
It was just there—that shift in the air, the pause in time where two hearts suddenly understood each other.
Dean didn't move at first. Neither did Alice.
Then, as though guided by something deeper, something beyond mere thought, he leaned in.
Their lips met in a lingering kiss, soft and searching, the kind that carried every unspoken emotion neither of them dared to voice aloud.
And just as the moment deepened, Salem squeezed herself between them, letting out a disgruntled meow.
They both burst into laughter.
Dean glanced at his watch, reality creeping back into place. "I think I have to go now," he murmured, reluctant. He reached for his phone, unlocking the screen. "Here—make sure I'm on your speed dial list. Number one."
Alice glanced at him. "Dean—"
"I mean it." His tone was gentle but firm. He met her gaze, holding it with quiet conviction. "Whenever, wherever you are, I'll come running."
Her heart clenched at his words.
She didn't know what it was—this unfamiliar warmth blooming in her chest, this sense of security wrapping itself around her—but she liked it.
And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she wasn't alone.
"Thank you," she whispered. "It means a lot."
Dean smiled, brushing his fingers across hers before stepping toward the door.
And as he disappeared into the night, Alice stared at the place where he stood, feeling—perhaps for the first time—that she had found something worth holding onto.
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A few days had passed since Alice last answered his messages. She was supposed to meet Dean at the park—a children's park, of all places. It wasn't their usual kind of spot. The plastic horses bobbed in silence, the swings creaked as the wind passed through them like forgotten breath. He waited on the bench beneath the rusted slide, watching shadows stretch long and thin across the sandbox.
The storm came without warning.
Later, he found her in the backyard—barefoot, soaked, spinning in a pale blue sundress that didn't belong to her. The fabric clung to her knees like something borrowed from a dream, or worse, a misplaced memory. Her curls hung limp, plastered to a face that wasn't quite hers.
She twirled. Slowly at first. Then faster. Arms outstretched. Face to the bruised sky. Laughter spilled from her lips—high, sweet, threaded with the lilt of a child half her age. When she paused to glance at him, her eyes caught the light—not hazel. Not tonight.
In them shimmered another girl. Blonde. Blue-eyed. Doll-like. A face from old catalogues, the kind mothers praised and brushed with satin ribbons. Not the sharp reflection of her own mother's tired face.
Maybe this time, she thought. Maybe this one would be loved.
When the trance broke, she blinked. The rain had gentled. She sat on the old swing, hair tangled, feet slick with mud. Dean called her name—quietly, as if not to scare whatever had taken hold. She didn't answer. Just looked at him, serene and distant, and began to swing—back and forth, smiling into the storm's aftertaste.
She remembered none of it. Not the dress. Not the spinning. Not the strange, sing-song cadence in her voice.
But Lewis had been here. The night felt it.
And those eyes—flecked with green and gold, yet never truly hers—still stared back at Dean from beneath the swing's lazy arc. Eyes too bright, too knowing.
They didn't match the way she'd smiled, or the way the nursery rhymes had curled from her tongue like relics from another life. Something in her had slipped... and something else had arrived.
Dean told himself it was nothing. That the weather had thrown them both. That he must've imagined the way her eyes caught the light. But when she looked away, he found himself searching her face for something he couldn't name.
The dress hung by the door the next day. Damp. Unfamiliar. Real.
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The dream pulled Dean under like a tide, dragging him into a world stitched together from his own creations—a place where his words were no longer ink but flesh, breathing, moving, reaching for him.
The night was suffocating, shadows swallowing the streets as he ran. Ahead, a figure bolted through the fog, her silhouette familiar yet distant—Alice.
He chased after her, the uneven rhythm of his footsteps echoing against the ground, but she kept slipping away, her breaths ragged, her screams sharp as they cut through the night.
Then, a sudden weight in his hand.
The metallic scent of blood.
He looked down—his fingers curled tight around an ax, its edge gleaming in the dim light.
His breath hitched.
This wasn't real.
It couldn't be.
Alice screamed again, but as he lurched forward, the ax in his grip shifted, twisting between his fingers. Wood splintered, metal warped, and in its place—a pen.
Ink pooled at his feet.
And then—they rose.
Figures dragged themselves from the earth, their hollowed eyes locked onto him, their whispers a chorus of forgotten names. Footsteps multiplied, an army of the dead rising from the pages of his mind, from the graves of his stories.
Crawling. Grabbing.
Hands pulled at his legs, sinking him, consuming him.
The dream twisted—darkening, unraveling into something far worse than before.
Dean stood frozen, his breath ragged, the heat of his fever pressing against the walls of his mind. The ink and blood pooled at his feet, seeping through the cracks in the ground, swallowing the world in its suffocating weight.
Then—movement.
A shape emerged from the abyss.
A woman.
Her body hung upside down, suspended by nothing, limbs eerily limp. Blood seeped from her form in slow, deliberate streams, draining, dripping, carving patterns into the surface below.
Dean's stomach lurched.
She had no face.
Nothing where features should have been—just smooth, hollow skin, void of identity, void of life.
Yet—she was watching him.
He could feel it.
His body trembled. He tried to move, tried to step away, but the ink beneath him thickened, gripping him in place. The whispers grew louder, their voices merging into something unrecognizable—something ancient, something hungry.
Then, without warning—the faceless woman twitched.
A sudden, jerking motion, as if she was waking up.
Dean's breath hitched.
She moved again.
Blood smeared against her throat as she reached for him—crawling, grasping.
A scream ripped through the air.
Dean didn't know if it was hers or his own.
The weight of the dream crushed him, suffocating, drowning him in the thick stench of death.
Alice—
Somewhere in the chaos, he saw her again.
She was there.
She pressed her lips to his in a fleeting kiss—cold, unreal—like a final goodbye, whispering something he couldn't understand.
Dean gasped.
His body jerked awake, drenched in sweat, feverish, his breath uneven as he lay in darkness.
The taste of blood and ink lingered on his tongue, sharp and unshaken.