Lucas walked along a street he didn't recognize. The sky above glowed in an impossible shade of purple, with unmoving clouds and lightning flashes that came without thunder. The streetlights were on, yet none cast a shadow. The sidewalks were damp. The air smelled of wet wood and scorched iron. From nowhere, a distant ticking sound echoed — like an old clock winding down.
He stopped before a twisted iron railing. Blood stained the pavement. A body — female, young, curled up with arms shielding her face, as if bracing for an invisible blow. A silver necklace with a blue pendant shimmered amidst dried blood.
Lucas knelt. He touched the ground. There was no warmth, no chill. Just a heavy presence, as if time had thickened around that spot. An urgency welled inside his chest. He knew this place. Or had dreamed it?
"Rafaela Lima..." he whispered.
He didn't know why he said the name, but he knew it was hers. Something moved nearby — a flicker. A shadow circling like wind behind windowless buildings. The ground seemed to tilt slightly, like reality was folding inward.
He stood and tried to run. The scene darkened. A breath that wasn't his echoed close to his ear. A mirror shattered behind him — he hadn't seen it there. But in the reflection, he saw himself... through someone else's eyes.
Then he woke up.
Lucas sat up in bed, gasping. 4:33 a.m. The digital clock on the wall blurred for a few seconds before returning to normal.
Barefoot, he walked to the kitchen. Turned on the TV. A cheerful anchor read the morning forecast. No murder. No missing girl. No Rafaela.
He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, then froze. A metallic clang echoed from the back of the house — like something dropped in the sink. But he was alone.
He exhaled and rubbed his face. He knew it was more than a dream. It had happened before.
In the past seven days, he'd dreamed of three deaths. Two had come true. Same positions. Same names. Same objects. But he'd told no one. How could he?
From behind a row of old books, he pulled out a hidden notebook. Sat at the kitchen table. Flipped through handwritten notes.
Morning light crept through the blinds as Lucas dressed for work. Black shirt, dark jeans, leather holster. He paused for a moment, staring into the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He tried to smile, but it didn't stick.
At the station, the usual buzz filled the air — phones ringing, printers humming, half-eaten breakfast on desks. Lucas walked through it like a ghost.
"Hey," Mateo called out, jogging beside him. "You catch the end of that game? Ridiculous penalty call."
Lucas forced a chuckle. "Didn't see it."
Mateo frowned. "You okay? You look... not okay."
Lucas waved it off. "Didn't sleep much. Nightmares."
"Again?"
Lucas nodded. "Yeah. One of those."
Mateo sighed. "You should talk to someone. Seriously."
"I am. You." Lucas smirked and walked off.
He passed the main hallway — where the reception clock had stopped again. 10:27 a.m., permanently. The same time every day. No one ever fixed it.
He stepped into Records. A dimly lit corridor led to an old file room that hadn't been used in years. He opened his notebook:
"DREAM 1 – WOMAN WITH BLUE PENDANT, APARTMENT DEATH – CONFIRMED"
"DREAM 2 – CHILD AT THE OLD BRIDGE – CONFIRMED"
"DREAM 3 – RAFAELA LIMA – PENDING"
He added more:
"Cracked pavement. Purple sky. No echo when I screamed. Shadow moved independently of objects. Clock ticking — not mine."
He paused. Wrote another line slowly:
"It's like something uses my sleep to show me what others won't see."
By noon, Lucas walked into the Noonday Sun Diner. The smell of fresh coffee and baked cheese bread filled the place. It was a small, humble spot near the station. Pale yellow tiles. Plastic booths. A cracked TV mounted on the corner wall.
Estela, the owner, greeted him. "Hey, Detective. The usual?"
He nodded. "Thanks, Estela."
She brought scrambled eggs, toast, and black coffee. Lucas stared at the plate, not hungry. The television flickered. Static. Then a sudden news alert:
— Breaking News: A young woman, Rafaela Lima, was found dead this morning in an alley near Rua Benjamin Constant...
Lucas dropped his fork. The sound was louder than it should have been.
Estela looked at him. "Lucas?"
He stood abruptly. "I have to go."
The alley was cordoned off. Yellow tape. Police presence. A few reporters kept back by barriers. Lucas flashed his badge and entered.
The area matched the dream exactly. Same wall. Same railing. Same puddles.
He crouched by the wall. The soot was still visible. He ran his fingers over it.
A symbol revealed itself.
Three curved lines crossing a circle.
He blinked. His vision shook. The symbol shimmered, then faded. Like it didn't want to be seen.
He stood back, chest rising. A humming noise pulsed in his skull. He turned slowly, feeling eyes that weren't there.
From behind, someone stepped into the alley.
"Lucas?"
He turned. It was Erick Vicent. Plainclothes. Tall. Composed. Calm.
"Didn't expect you here," Erick said.
Lucas nodded. "I was nearby."
Erick looked at the wall. Then at Lucas. "You alright?"
Lucas hesitated. "Just tired."
"Me too," Erick murmured. Then added, "Let's talk later."
They stood in silence for a beat too long. Then parted ways.
Lucas didn't know yet — but both had seen the same dreams.
And both were being watched.