The rain was falling, but there was no sky, only a dark vault, devoid of stars, like a living abyss breathing slowly. The drops struck an invisible surface, rebounded, and vanished before touching the ground. I felt neither cold nor warmth, only that strange sensation of floating in a space suspended outside of time.
She appeared without a sound, as if she had always been there. From her back spread two immense wings, black so deep they seemed to swallow all light. Her face, softly human in its beauty, was framed by damp strands of blond hair, clinging to her skin as if the rain fell for her alone. Her eyes, fixed and unblinking, seemed to probe something deeper than my mere gaze.
I didn't feel like I knew her, yet a familiar sensation passed through me, like the blurred memory of a thought long forgotten.
Her lips opened to form a few words, I could read my name on her lips, Gabriel, but no sound reached my ears. The rain seemed to stop, frozen in the air, just long enough to let her silent voice pass.
I tried to speak to her, but my voice collapsed in my throat, swallowed like a stone dropped into a bottomless well. The wings spread even wider, brushing the invisible edges of this unreal world. The air grew heavy with an ancient scent, like that of a book opened for the first time in decades. She stepped closer, reached out with two fingers toward my forehead, and the moment they touched my skin, everything dissolved into blinding light, then total darkness.
I woke up, sitting up in bed, my hand clenched over my chest. My heart was pounding violently. The room was shrouded in pale gloom, lit only by a light coming from the street. My phone was flashing on the nightstand: 5:47 a.m.
I stayed there for a moment, motionless, breath short, until my heartbeat finally slowed. The dream was already fading, like all dreams do, but it left behind a strange sensation, not fear, but a dull pressure lodged behind my right eye, like a migraine still deciding whether to arrive.
I crossed my apartment without turning on the lights. I poured a glass of water, took two gulps, and kept the third in my mouth. I stared at my reflection in the dark glass above the sink. My black hair was messy, my features calm, my dark circles discreet. Nothing in that image betrayed the unrest within me.
The shower was quick. I pulled on a dark hoodie, jeans, worn sneakers. Bag over my shoulder, I checked my pockets out of habit: keys, student card, earphones. Everything in its place. My hand lingered for a moment on the door handle, as if I could sense that something important was waiting beyond it. It wasn't the first time I'd felt this way. And, as always, it passed.
Outside, the morning air was sharp, almost cutting. Shutters opened one by one, engines coughed to life, a few hurried figures moved down the street. I liked this hour, when the city was still preparing to exist. Music in my ears… I've always loved my country, France; there are things here you won't find anywhere else, starting with the smell of warm bread drifting from the bakery.
The campus appeared at the turn of a corner. Grey façades, lawns kept almost too perfect, bulletin boards crammed with colorful flyers, the polished image you expect from a university. But looking closer, certain details caught my eye: a club room locked with a brand-new padlock, a wing of the library whose lights stayed on all night, windows sealed for vague "security reasons."
I walked past the gym. The damp floor gave off the scent of cleaning products. A group of students ran in circles while a coach barked orders. For a moment, I imagined myself pivoting on one foot, landing a precise strike on an invisible target, remembering the fights I'd had years ago in national competitions. The image faded as quickly as it came. This wasn't my world anymore. I had no reason to fight now.
In the main hall, the flyers changed every week. Theater, robotics, chess club… and literature. The literature club's flyer, cream background, tidy letters, announced: Reading Circle – Thursday 6 p.m. I'd never set foot there, despite my love of books. In my mind, it was nothing but endless discussions about works I would never read.
A hot coffee in hand, I sat apart. Students passed in front of me in a parade of familiar but nameless faces. A few polite nods, quick smiles. The morning routine. Until my gaze met hers.
She stood about ten meters away, with stunning Venetian-blond hair, a confident posture, a clear, unwavering gaze. She held a strange book in her arms, something like a diary. She was speaking to someone, but her eyes found mine and stayed there for two, maybe three seconds. It wasn't insistent, nor hostile. More like a careful observation, as if comparing reality to a precise memory. Then she looked away and walked off calmly.
Later, a board near the registrar's office displayed portraits of the various club presidents. My eyes stopped on her photo. Her name was Jane, president of the literature club. I should have forgotten the information immediately, but it stayed in a corner of my mind, like a detail you can't seem to file away.
The rest of the morning passed, ordinary on the surface. But as I climbed the lecture hall steps, I couldn't help thinking back to that dream… and to that look.