Ruth's voice clawed its way into my dream.
"Eliza. Eliza—wake up!"
I fought my way back to consciousness, my chest tight, my heart pounding like I'd been running for miles.
The darkness peeled away slowly, and when my eyes finally focused, Ruth was leaning over me, her pink beanie pulled low over her curls.
I exhaled. Safe.
"Nightmares again?" she asked, already halfway out the door, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"Yeah."
She frowned. "You should really see a therapist, Eliza. Medication might help. You can't keep waking up like this."
"Maybe," I said, because it was easier than telling her the truth.
The truth was that talking about my nightmares was dangerous. Last time I did, I ended up institutionalized.
"I'm late for Economics," Ruth said. "Lunch?"
"Sure."
She waved and disappeared, leaving silence behind.
I dragged myself to the bathroom and stared at my reflection. Dark circles bruised the skin under my eyes, making me look older than twenty. I slept, sure—but I never rested.
Because in my dreams, I killed people.
Not every night. But when it happened, it always felt like a mission. I wore a black cloak. A mask. I hunted.
The faces of my victims were always wrong—blurred, stretched, inhuman. Like ghosts pretending to be people.
This morning, I'd killed a boy with no face.
I chased him into his house and wrapped my hands around his throat until he stopped breathing.
Too real. Always too real.
I checked the time. Late. Again.
I showered, grabbed an apple, and ran for campus as rain clouds swallowed Bergen whole.
My mother had chosen one of the rainiest cities on Earth to rebuild her life with her new husband.
After my father died, she married Kristoffer Franzen—Norwegian, wealthy, powerful. We moved to Oslo when I was fifteen.
The first chance I got, I escaped to Bergen. It wasn't far enough—but it was far.
The university was buzzing when I arrived. Whispers rippled through the halls like electricity.
I stopped a girl from my program. "What's going on?"
Her face was pale. "You didn't hear?"
"Hear what?"
"Eric—third-year Computer Science? He died last night."
"What?" My stomach dropped. "How?"
"No one knows. His roommate found him."
Another girl leaned in. "They're saying he was strangled."
I forced a gasp. "That's horrible."
But something inside me twisted.
The walls seemed to close in. My vision blurred. I started sweating, my lungs burning as if the air had thickened.
"Eliza? You look really pale," someone said.
"I'm fine," I lied, backing away.
I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up.
Sitting on the cold tile floor, I pressed my hands to my face.
This was new.
I knew—logically—that I had nothing to do with Eric's death. But the fear wouldn't let go.
My nightmares had always felt real, but now reality was bleeding into them.
Or the other way around.
I skipped the rest of my classes.
That night, my mother called.
"Eliza, Kristoffer's birthday is Wednesday. I expect you in Oslo early."
"I have a test—"
"I don't care. It's rude not to be there."
"He won't even notice if I'm gone."
"I will."
She hung up before I could argue.
I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, wishing for dreamless sleep.
Instead, my thoughts spiraled—Kristoffer's mansion, his friends in tailored suits, my mother parading me like an accessory. A future I didn't want.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
The next morning, there were no nightmares.
Relief flooded me—until I noticed the note Ruth had left on the dresser.
Morning, Eliza.
I left you the contact of someone who might help with the nightmares.
You should try.
—Ruth
The address was unfamiliar.
I hesitated only once before grabbing my keys.
What did I have to lose?