The night feels wrong.
Too still. Too neat. Like silence is sitting in the corner watching me.
I keep tossing under the sheets, restless. The room is dark except for the blinking light from my AC — a faint green pulse that reminds me I'm still here, still breathing. But the air feels… heavy. Almost like it's pressing down on me.
I close my eyes. I tell myself to sleep. Just sleep.
And then—
I'm not in my room anymore.
I'm standing in a hallway.
Cold marble under my bare feet.
Lights above me flicker like they're trying to stay alive.
And that smell — metallic, faint, and wrong.
I don't know this place. But my chest tightens like I do.
There's a door at the end of the corridor. Slightly open. Golden light spills through the crack.
I hear something — a breath, a sob maybe.
And then… my name.
Soft. Broken.
"Mara?"
My voice trembles. It's barely a whisper, but it echoes all the way down.
I move closer. My hands are shaking. Every step sounds louder than the last. My heart's in my throat now.
The door creaks as I push it open a little more — and then I freeze.
Mara's standing there.
Half-naked.
Undressing slowly, like every movement hurts.
And then I see them — the bruises.
All over her body. Her ribs, her arms, her back. Deep, dark, ugly marks blooming across her skin like something alive.
"Mara…"
I try to move forward, but something invisible holds me back. Like I've hit a wall made of air. I press my palms forward, and there's resistance — cold, smooth, unyielding.
Then — he appears.
A shadow at first. A man, tall, broad-shouldered. His face is blurry, but his presence is so sharp it makes my skin crawl.
He steps closer to her.
And before I can even blink — he hits her.
The sound.
Oh God, the sound.
That heavy, sickening thud.
Mara stumbles, gasping, but he doesn't stop. Another blow. Then another.
I slam my fists against the invisible wall.
"Stop!" I scream. "STOP IT!"
He doesn't hear me.
Or maybe he does, and he doesn't care.
"Mara!" I shout again. My voice cracks. Tears burn my eyes. I hit the wall harder, my palms stinging. "Let her go!"
She collapses to the floor.
Blood seeps from her mouth. Then her ear. Then her eyes.
I can't breathe.
"No… no, no, no—please—"
He grabs her again, slamming her against the wall. And that sound—her body hitting it—it makes me feel sick.
"LET HER GO!" I scream so loud I feel my throat tear. "PLEASE!"
And then everything stops.
He turns.
The air goes still, thick with something cold and alive.
He turns toward me, slow and deliberate, like he's known I was there all along. His shadow stretches until it swallows the floor, until it touches my feet.
I can't move. I can't breathe.
My knees are shaking.
And then — I see his eyes.
Those eyes.
Cold. Sharp.
But familiar.
So familiar it feels like something tears open inside my chest.
He walks toward me.
One step. Two. Three.
I stumble backward, but there's nowhere to go. The wall — the invisible wall — it's gone now.
His hand reaches through the air like smoke, wrapping around my throat before I can scream.
I can feel him. His grip tightening. His breath — hot, foul, whispering against my face.
"I'm coming for you next."
Everything goes black.
And then — someone's shaking me.
I gasp.
I can't breathe. My throat burns. My lungs are empty. I claw at the sheets, gasping like I've been underwater for too long.
"Ayla! Ayla, wake up!"
I hear it — my name, loud, desperate.
Hands on my shoulders. Warm hands. Real hands.
I open my eyes and everything blurs.
I'm in my room.
The air feels heavy. My heart is still racing like it's trying to escape my ribs.
"Ayla, baby, it's okay—it's okay!"
It's my mother.
She's right there, sitting on my bed, her face etched with panic. She pulls me against her chest before I can think. Her arms are strong, soft, trembling.
I collapse into her.
I can't stop crying. My body shakes violently.
I hear other voices — my father's, Evan's, even Mara's — all around me, but they sound far away. Distant. Muffled.
Right now, there's only my mother.
Her heartbeat under my ear. The scent of lavender and home.
"It's okay, baby girl," she whispers, stroking my hair. "It's okay. You're safe. You're safe now. Breathe with me, okay? Deep breaths."
I try.
But my lungs refuse.
I'm choking on my own sobs.
"Mama, I saw her," I cry, my voice breaking. "He was— he was hurting her— I tried to stop him, I tried—"
"Shh…" she murmurs, holding me tighter. "It was just a dream. Just a dream, my love."
But I shake my head against her chest.
"No. It wasn't. It felt real. I could feel it. I could feel him."
My father moves closer. I can see the worry written all over his face. Evan stands behind him, pale, uncertain, his hands trembling. Mara's by the door — alive, unharmed, confused.
I can't look at her too long.
Every time I do, I see her falling again.
The blood. The bruises. The sound of him saying—
I'm coming for you next.
I press my face harder into my mother's shoulder. I wish I could crawl inside her heartbeat and stay there.
She rocks me gently, her hand rubbing slow circles on my back.
"Hush, little baby, don't you cry…" she whispers softly, singing that old lullaby she used to hum when I was small.
Her voice cracks halfway through, but she keeps singing anyway.
And I just sob harder.
Because it's not just a lullaby anymore. It's a lifeline.
Her tears fall onto my hair. I feel them, hot and quiet. She kisses my forehead and whispers, "It's okay, Ayla. Mummy's here. I've got you."
Little by little, my body starts to calm. My breathing slows. But my mind… my mind's still back there.
In that room.
With Mara.
With him.
I look up finally. My eyes meet Mara's from across the room.
And suddenly—
The dream flashes behind my eyelids like a cruel slideshow. Her bruises. The blood. That man's shadow.
And those eyes.
God, those eyes.
They weren't a stranger's.
I know that now.
They were familiar.
Too familiar.
Like I've seen them before. In a face that once smiled at me. In a voice that once called my name.
The realization creeps up my spine like ice.
I shiver.
My mother hums again, quiet and broken.
Her voice fills the room — soft, fragile, human.
"Hush, little baby, don't you cry…"
And though my tears have slowed, I still feel that ache deep in my chest.
Because those eyes —
those haunting, impossible eyes —
belong to someone from my past.
Someone who should've been gone long ago.
And I know, deep down,
this wasn't just a dream.
It was a warning.