Winter mornings had a habit of sneaking up gently on Noah.
He woke to a pale sweep of sunlight pushing its way around the edge of his curtains, the quiet hum of the radiator doing its best impression of "functional," and the faint smell of coffee he had forgotten to throw out last night. His apartment was small—student-budget small—but the kind that felt lived-in rather than cramped. Books stacked like miniature cityscapes. A plant on the windowsill trying very hard not to die. A blanket half-fallen from the couch, as though it had attempted an escape.
Noah blinked away the fuzziness of sleep.
The ceiling greeted him back.
"Morning," he told it, voice gravelly.
The ceiling, as always, chose silence.
He sat up, hair doing its usual "disaster with conviction" look, and shuffled to the kitchenette. The tile was cold under his feet, enough to make him hiss through his teeth but not enough to convince him to find slippers. He poured out last night's coffee, rinsed the mug, and made a fresh cup—black, but only because he kept forgetting to buy sugar.
Steam rose. He breathed it in.
Not bad. Not good certainly, but not bad.
He padded toward his small dining table which also served as his study desk, dinner table, drawing station, and impromptu laundry checkpoint and opened the blinds. Outside, the world was softened by winter. Buildings blurred slightly behind morning haze. Cars crawled through slush. A dog in a tiny sweater marched with absolute dignity across the sidewalk.
Noah snorted. "Respect..."
He took a sip of coffee, warming his hands against the mug, and let his mind wander the way it always did in the mornings. Not toward the strange dreams or the muscle memories that didn't belong to him—those things crept in later, uninvited—but toward the calmness of routine.
Shower. Dress. Try to fix hair and lost the battle immediately. Pretend not to care.
He chose a soft hoodie, pulled on jeans, and shouldered his backpack. Before heading out, he paused at the door, looking back over the apartment—messy in the corners, cozy in the middle, entirely his.
"Alright," he exhaled. "Another day."
As he left he grabbed his Campus I.D
Noah V. Miller. (Vale)
3rd Year - Junior Education
He locked the door behind him, stepping into the cool hallway, ready for university, for dumb shenanigans with friends, for the ordinary-unordinary unfolding of an ordinary winter morning.
He didn't feel strange yet. He didn't feel out of place. Just Noah—21, American, college student, halfway awake and trying his best.
A pretty good start to the day.
Morning at the university was always a little louder than Noah preferred.
By the time he reached campus, the air had warmed just enough that people ventured out of their scarves to talk. Students streamed across the quad in loose clusters, boots crunching through light frost, breath rising in pale ribbons. The smell of roasted coffee beans drifted from the campus café, mingling with cold wind and the chatter of early classes.
Noah walked with his hands in his coat pockets, keeping his shoulders low, trying to let the energy of the place wake him properly. He wasn't a loner, not really—he just moved quietly, in the way of someone who carried too many thoughts to always match the world's pace.
"Vale!"
A heavy arm draped suddenly across his shoulders. Noah blinked as the heavy weight disrupted his balance for a moment.
Jordan Kim grinned down at him—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a beanie that was probably stolen from his girlfriend, loud in every space except libraries.
He was the type of friend who talked too much, laughed too easily, and instinctively knew when Noah needed someone else to fill the silence.
The best friend he made during sophomore years.
"You look like you slept two hours," Jordan observed, squinting at him.
"Three," Noah corrected. "That's practically a full night for me."
"Bro, that's… really not a flex."
They crossed the hall wing together, weaving around a walkway dusted with glittering frost. A few students were having a snowball fight using clumps of ice that hadn't fully melted from last night's weather. A girl in a red coat watched them with a camera, smiling through her scarf.
"Did you do the problem set yet?" Jordan asked as they reached the math building.
"Yeah," Noah said. "Finished it last night."
Jordan groaned dramatically. "This is why I keep you around. Moral support."
"You don't even ask for help," Noah replied. "You just suffer loudly until someone feels bad for you."
"Effective strategy, though." Got to admit that."
Before they reached the door, a third voice called behind them.
"Noah! Jordan! Hold up!"
Sienna Lee jogged toward them, her hair bouncing from beneath a gray knit cap. She was always in motion—talking, smiling, adjusting her glasses, juggling three conversation threads at once. Today she carried a stack of sketchbooks under one arm, charcoal dust smudged faintly across her fingers.
"Morning," she said cheerfully, breath fogging. "Did either of you see the email from Professor Aldridge?"
Jordan looked alarmed. Noah felt his soul leave his body as the both of them asked "Was there homework I missed?"
"No," Sienna laughed. "He's cancelling Monday's lecture. Long weekend."
Jordan threw both fists into the air. "Bless his ancient soul."
Noah nodded sagely "Amen."
Sienna rolled her eyes. "He's forty-eight."
"Ancient."
Noah smiled faintly as they climbed the stairs together. The news of an extra day felt like a small miracle—like the universe deciding he deserved a moment of quiet.
Inside the classroom building, heat wrapped around them like a blanket. Students peeled off gloves and sighed gratefully. A heater rattled in the hallway ceiling, overworked and almost wheezing.
Their first class went smoothly—differential equations, the kind of subject that either intimidated or soothed people. It soothed Noah. Numbers were clean. Predictable. They never shifted into shapes he didn't recognize. They never woke him gasping.
Afterward, the three of them lingered outside the lecture hall as students flooded out.
"What are you guys doing for the long weekend?" Sienna asked.
"Sleeping," Jordan declared. "Eating. More sleeping."
"Very productive."
"I refuse to be shamed."
Sienna turned to Noah. "What about you?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it.
Elara: Long weekend, right? Come home.
Elara: Dad's making stew and Mom's demanding to see your face.
A small smile tugged at his mouth
"One of sister just texted," he said. "They want me to come visit."
"You going?" Sienna asked.
"Yeah, duh" Noah said softly. "If I don't, I'll never hear the end of it"
Jordan clapped him on the back. "Good. Go let your mom spoil you."
"? She doesn't spoil me."
Both Sienna and Jordan raised identical eyebrows. Noah wanted to refute them further, but he can't... Not after that Parent-Teacher conference.
"…Okay, she spoils me," Noah admitted.
They walked together toward the student union—Sienna heading to the art floor, Jordan to the cafeteria. Noah's next class wasn't for another hour, so he peeled away to the second-floor lounge, finding an empty couch beside the window.
Outside, snow began falling again, thin and drifting, like ash from a distant fire.
He pulled his notebook from his bag.
Not the dream journal. Just his regular notes for class.
Yet for a few moments, he simply stared out the window instead.
He felt… normal, in this moment. Listening to students laugh down the hall. Watching the snowfall thicken. Feeling the warmth seep from the heater into the couch cushions. Belonging, in a soft, tentative way.
But beneath that warmth was something else. Something he couldn't name.
A faint ache in his fingers, like he had spent hours gripping something heavier than a pen. A subtle pull in his chest, like he had forgotten a promise he never made.
He shook his head slightly, as if physically scattering the thought.
Class time approached. He packed his things, went to lecture, took neat notes. He joked with Jordan afterward, grabbed a hot chocolate from the union, and headed toward the library for a quiet study hour before his bus ride home.
Life moved gently. Warm despite the outside temperature
Yet every step felt like it was being shadowed by someone who walked inside his skin.
By the time the afternoon dimmed into orange-gray twilight, Noah's phone buzzed again.
Elara: Bus leaves at five. Don't miss it. Mom will hunt you down.
He typed back: Calm down jeez, I wont miss it
Classes passed in their usual rhythm—warm chatter, cold hallways, and professors who looked just as tired as the students.
By the time Noah left the lecture hall, the afternoon sun had already slipped behind a veil of winter cloud, giving everything that soft gray glow that made people walk a little slower. He made his way across campus, passing familiar faces and exchanging familiar nods.
At the courtyard, he spotted his friends—Theo, Maya, and Evan—clustered around a vending machine that refused to release Maya's bag of pretzels.
"Kick it," Evan advised.
"No," Theo countered, "tilt it—gently, like you're romancing it."
Maya pressed her forehead against the glass. "Just give me my snacks, dude."
Noah approached. "Morning, geniuses."
All three turned.
"Noah!" Maya groaned, pointing at the machine. "Help. It ate my pretzels."
Noah crouched, looked at the slot, and tapped the side lightly.
The pretzels dropped.
All three stared.
Evan whispered, "He is the chosen one."
Noah raised his coffee. Sipping it obnoxiously loud "I accept offerings in the form of warm food."
Laughter puffed out in little clouds around them as their breath met the cold air. They stood there for a moment, sharing pretzels while waiting for their next class—just dumb, simple winter joy.
When they reached the lecture hall, their last professor—a kind man with a permanent sweater rotation—stood at the front with a smile that immediately told everyone: something is up.
"Good news," he announced. "Due to campus maintenance and… let's say 'administrative chaos,' you're all getting an extra-long weekend."
A wave of cheers.
Maya fist-pumped the air. Evan nearly fell out of his chair. Theo whispered, "My ancestors smile upon this blessing."
Noah's phone buzzed.
A message from his youngest sister, Ava:
Ava: Long weekend, right? Heard from Elara. COME HOME. Dad misses you. Mom misses you. I miss you. Elara too but mostly cause your her servant Also, I need your help opening a jam jar.
Noah snorted quietly.
Another message arrived:
Ava: I'm serious about the jam jar.
He typed a reply.
Noah: Fine. I'll come home.Ava: GOOD. Bring snacks.
Warmth spread through him. Their town wasn't far—maybe two hours by bus—but he didn't visit as often as he should. His apartment, his school, his life all felt like their own small universe. Sometimes he forgot there was another one waiting for him.
After classes, Noah returned to his apartment, flicked on the lights, and grabbed a duffel from under his bed.
He packed lightly: shirts, jeans, chargers, toiletries, and the sweater his mom bought last Christmas that he pretended he didn't like but wore constantly because it was soft.
As he zipped the bag closed, he paused.
His dream journal sat on the desk, its black cover worn on the edges.
He hesitated… then slipped it into the bag.
Just in case.
The station buzzed with the kind of energy only pre-holiday travel could generate—people hugging relatives, dragging suitcases, buying snacks they definitely didn't need but bought anyway simply because the vending stalls smelled good.
Noah purchased a ticket, boarded early, and took a window seat. His breath fogged the glass slightly as he watched commuters hurry past.
When the doors closed and the bus lurched forward, he finally let himself relax. Streetlights blurred into streaks of gold as the city drifted away.
He reached into his bag.
Pulled out the journal.
Held it for a long moment.
It had been his dad's idea.
"Write them down," Dad had said when Noah was twelve and woke up from yet another dream he couldn't explain. "Sometimes the mind tells its story sideways."
So Noah did.
At first, it was innocent: kid adventures, weird dream monsters, floating islands, forgotten hallways of childhood fears.
But as he grew older, the dreams changed.
More vivid.More structured.More… real.
Dad called them "impression dreams." A poetic term. Comforting. Clinical enough to sound normal.
Except nothing about them felt normal.
The journal had become his ritual—every morning, every night when the dreams were too heavy. Writing steadied him. Drawing helped him breathe through the things he didn't understand.
But lately…
He flipped open the pages.
His breath hitched.
New entries.
Pages of writing in languages he didn't speak— Strange Latin, Archaic Hànzì, Weird Kyūjitai , Ancient Hanja.
Entire paragraphs etched in his handwriting but were completely foreign to him.
And then... there were the symbols.
Curved sigils. Sharp geometric lines. Spirals with dots like stars. Shapes that felt almost familiar but slipped away when he tried to focus on them.
He ran a thumb along the ink, feeling the indentations—proof he had really written them. These were old; the ink had embedded deep into the paper.
But he remembered none of it.
A faint unease tugged at him, subtle but steady, like a low hum under the floor of his mind.
A question he couldn't ask out loud:
Who wrote these?Me?
The bus continued down the winter road, humming softly as snow began to fall.
Noah closed the journal gently—almost afraid of waking something.
He leaned back against the seat, watching the world pass by in blurred silver and white.
And though he didn't know why…
He couldn't shake the feeling that something inside him had just stirred.