Luna didn't fall asleep.
She slipped.
One moment, she was lying in bed, listening to the hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the distant bark of Mrs. Ruiz's dog. The next—she was standing on a bridge made of clock hands, suspended over an ocean of shattered mirrors.
Each mirror showed a different sky. Some burned with twin suns. Others drowned in endless rain. One reflected her own face—but older, eyes hollow, mouth open in a silent scream.
She didn't flinch.
She'd been here before. Not this exact place, but close. Ever since the storm inside her woke up, dreams weren't dreams anymore. They were doorways. And someone kept leaving them unlocked.
"Not all doors should stay open, little anchor."
The voice came from behind her—dry as parchment, warm as embers.
Luna turned.
