The air in Rhea's dream smelled strange—like roses burning. She stood at the edge of a crumbling bridge, the stones beneath her feet shining as if they were wet. But it wasn't rain. It was like the bridge itself was crying.
Below her, a dark river twisted and swirled. The water was black, like spilled ink, swallowing pieces of the bridge as they broke off and fell.
Across the gap stood V, his figure outlined against a sky filled with dying stars. Their light was fading, like candles in the wind.
"You're running out of time," he said. His voice sounded distant, like he was speaking through glass. She had heard him say those words before—in the last dream? Or was it the one before that?
Rhea couldn't remember. This place always changed, shifting like sand under her feet. And with every dream, she forgot a little more.
Her heart pounded as she took a step forward. The bridge groaned, trembling beneath her.
"Tell me what I'm supposed to do," she said. Her voice sounded strong, but inside she was shaking.
V tilted his head, his face impossible to read. "You already know," he replied.
A cold wind swept past her, carrying whispers. She heard bits of old conversations with Sia, the sound of Paris traffic, a piece of one of V's songs. The dream was stealing pieces of her real life again.
Rhea clenched her fists. "No riddles," she demanded. "Not this time."
The bridge cracked, splitting the space between them. V's image flickered, like a candle about to go out. For just a second, his face changed—he looked younger, softer, his eyes wide with something like fear.
"Rhea," he said. But this time, it wasn't the dream V's voice.
It was his. The real one.
And then—the bridge broke apart.
She fell.
The icy black water closed over her, freezing her bones like a winter grave. She kicked and fought, but the river dragged her deeper. Shadows wrapped around her like hands, pulling her down.
Wake up.
---
Rhea gasped, her eyes flying open. She was in her bed, tangled in sweaty sheets. Her clock blinked 3:47 AM in glowing red numbers. Outside, Paris was completely silent, as if the whole city was holding its breath.
Her heart was racing. The dream still clung to her, like cold fingers on her skin.
The bridge. The water. His voice.
A soft knock came at her door.
"Rhea?" It was Sia, her roommate. Her voice was sleepy but worried. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Rhea said, though her throat felt tight. "Just a nightmare."
The door opened slowly. Sia stepped in, her messy hair sticking up, sleep lines still on her face. She flipped on the light and winced at how bright it was.
"You were shouting," Sia said, walking over to sit beside Rhea on the bed. "Was it the same dream?"
Rhea hugged her knees to her chest. She nodded. "It's getting worse," she whispered. "It's like the dream is... learning about me. Like it's remembering me."
Sia's eyebrows pulled together. "That's... creepy. Maybe you should talk to someone? Like, a therapist or something—"
"No." Rhea shook her head hard. "It's not that kind of problem."
Sia stared at her for a long time, then sighed. "You've been acting strange ever since these dreams started. And don't think I haven't noticed you staring at V's posters like they're going to talk back."
Rhea's face flushed with heat. "It's not like that."
"Isn't it?" Sia raised an eyebrow. "I mean, yeah—he's gorgeous, and famous. But he's also a million miles away from us. You can't keep letting these dreams mess with your head."
Rhea stayed silent. How could she explain that these weren't normal dreams? They were puzzles. Warnings. Clues to something much bigger than a celebrity crush.
Sia sighed again and squeezed her shoulder. "Just... promise me you'll try to sleep, okay?"
"I'll try," Rhea said, forcing a smile.
When Sia finally left, Rhea reached under her pillow and pulled out her small leather journal. She'd started writing in it after the fifth dream—the night she woke up with a cut on her palm that hadn't been there before.
She flipped to the newest page.
Dream 14.
The bridge. The water.
He knew my name.
Her pen hovered over the page. After a moment, she added:
I think the curse is real.
And I think it's killing him.
---
The next morning, Paris was wrapped in mist. The fog made the streets look soft and blurry, like part of another dream.
Rhea walked to campus beside Sia, her mind still stuck in the night's nightmare.
"You're quiet," Sia said, nudging her gently. "Still thinking about the dream?"
Rhea was about to answer when she saw something—a quick movement across the street. A tall figure stood under a café awning, dark-haired, shoulders hunched against the cold.
Her heart skipped a beat.
It couldn't be.
But the man turned for just a second, and Rhea's stomach flipped. His profile—his face—it was so familiar it hurt.
Then a bus rolled by, blocking her view.
When it was gone, the man had vanished.
Sia followed her gaze. "What is it?"
Rhea swallowed hard. "Nothing. Just... thought I saw someone."
But her pulse wouldn't slow down.
Because if the dreams were starting to bleed into real life, then one terrifying question remained:
What happens when the line between the two completely disappears?
To be continue...