Becky didn't go to class the next day.
She couldn't.
Instead, she walked to the quietest part of campus: the sub-basement of the old humanities building. Barely anyone went there anymore. But she remembered once hearing a rumour
—something about a collection of books the university didn't catalogue.
A forgotten archive.
She found it behind a metal door with a broken sign.
Inside: dust, silence, and rows of unlabeled shelves.
She didn't know what she was looking for—until she found a small, leather-bound journal wedged behind a crumbling stack.
No title.
She opened it.
Page after page, written in messy ink, someone had recorded dreams.
Each one described butterflies.
A garden.
A man offering wine.
And the creeping terror of being watched.
But the dates…
Some were from last year.
Some were from a decade ago.
One entry was nearly sixty years old.
"He smiled and said the wine would stop the pain."
"I drank. I can't remember my sister's name anymore."
"There is no waking. There is only pretending."
Becky sat down hard.
She wasn't the first.
And maybe… she wouldn't be the last.
At the very back of the journal was a folded note in newer paper.
It read:
"If you're reading this, don't trust what looks like comfort. It only takes one sip. One yes. Then you'll belong to him. If he's targeting you, it means you're still free. Stay that way."
No signature.
Becky clutched the paper tight.
Someone else had escaped him.
And now she had proof.