The next day feels off from the moment Ethan wakes.
The air is heavier, the morning light duller. Even the rain against his window doesn't sound right—it whispers, soft and broken, like a voice trying to remember words it once knew.
He moves through his small apartment in silence, every sound slightly warped. The click of the switch, the creak of the floorboards, the faint hum of the fridge, they all echo a little too long, as if the world itself has forgotten how to breathe properly.
When he steps outside, the streets are quieter than usual. No morning chatter. No vendors shouting prices. Just the rhythmic patter of rain following him like a shadow.
He keeps shaking off flashes:
Thunder.
Cages.
The boy's tear-streaked face.
It's just a dream, he mutters, gripping his umbrella tighter. But the words fall flat, swallowed by the gray morning.
By the time he reaches the bookstore, the brass bell above the door greets him with a soft chime. Normally, it's comforting. Today, it sounds... tired.
The familiar scent of paper and dust wraps around him, but even that feels off. The air feels thicker, like the books themselves are holding their breath.
Mr. Abernathy is already there, humming an old tune as he straightens a display shelf. The melody drifts through the store—low, slow, and almost mournful.
Ethan stares for a moment before saying, "You're here early."
The old man smiles faintly, eyes still on the books. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd get a head start."
Ethan nods absently and gets to work. His hands move automatically, sorting and stacking, but his mind drifts somewhere else. The storm. The flash of light. The way that boy's cry had pierced through everything.
He doesn't notice Abernathy watching him until the man's voice breaks the quiet.
"Dreams are just doors, boy."
Ethan looks up. Abernathy hasn't turned around.
"And some doors," the old man continues, "shouldn't be opened twice."
Ethan freezes. A chill ripples through his chest.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, forcing a small laugh.
Abernathy turns slowly, his wrinkled face unreadable. Then he smiles, too softly. "Nothing, son. Just talking nonsense again."
But something in his voice lingers. A weight. A regret that doesn't belong to the moment.
Ethan exhales and tries to shake it off. "You know," he says, glancing around, "this place is always busy. You'd think people would rather buy online, but somehow, they keep coming back."
The old man chuckles, eyes glinting. "Guess stories are better when they've been touched by real hands."
Before Ethan can reply, the bell above the door chimes again.
A woman steps in, holding a small boy by the hand. The sound of their footsteps feels almost too real, echoing softly against the wooden floor.
Ethan looks up—and his heart nearly stops.
The boy's face.
He knows that face.
The same one from his dream.
His pulse spikes, breath hitching in his throat. The boy looks around with bright, curious eyes, tugging gently at his mother's hand. He points toward a shelf near the window.
Ethan blinks hard, trying to steady himself. "Uh huh?" Then he forces a small, nervous laugh. "Oh, you must be a fan of webnovels, huh?"
The boy nods shyly, almost smiling.
Ethan kneels and pulls a book from the shelf, trying to act normal. "This one's popular lately. Lots of adventure and dreams," he says, then pauses, realizing the irony. The word dreams lands heavy in his chest.
The boy accepts the book, clutching it close. His mother thanks Ethan politely, and the transaction passes in quiet simplicity.
But when they leave, the doorbell's chime echoes longer than usual, fading into something hollow. Ethan stands there, frozen.
He could swear he hears thunder again, distant and deep.
Hours pass. The shop grows quieter as the day drifts toward evening. The usual chatter of customers fades until only the hum of rain remains.
Ethan decides to tidy up a pile of returned books. The repetitive motion soothes him, until something odd catches his eye.
A book he doesn't remember logging in. No title. No author. The cover is dark and faintly damp, as if it's been left out in the rain.
He frowns, picking it up. "What the hell…"
When he opens it, the pages flutter on their own—like the book is breathing.
A faint glow pulses between the lines, illuminating one sentence that burns in his vision:
> The dreamer who forgets will dream again.
The lights flicker.
Ethan snaps the book shut, his heart pounding.
"Mr. Abernathy?" he calls.
The old man appears from the back room, expression unreadable. When his eyes land on the book, his face darkens.
"Don't read that one," he says sharply.
Ethan blinks. "What? Why not?"
Abernathy's gaze lingers on the cover, then softens. "Because, son," he says quietly, "some books don't want to be read."
Later that night, Ethan sits alone in his apartment. The mysterious book lies beside him, its cover faintly glistening under the lamplight.
He shouldn't have taken it home. He knows that.
But curiosity had clawed deeper than reason.
The ceiling fan hums. The rain outside has stopped, but the thunder hasn't—it rumbles faintly, rhythmic, like a heartbeat behind clouds.
He flips the book open again. The words blur, twisting like fog.
His eyelids grow heavy.
Just a few minutes… he whispers.
Sleep pulls him under like a tide.
The Dream Returns
When his eyes open, he's standing in the ruins again. The same gray sky. The same scent of burnt air.
Only this time, it's quieter. Slower. The world feels half-frozen, colors bleeding out of shape.
He walks, breath shallow. Then, through the haze, a figure steps forward—a man in a dark trench coat. Calm, steady eyes that seem to know him.
"You came back," the man says. His voice is deep, deliberate. "Good."
Ethan stiffens. "Who are you?"
The man tilts his head, studying him. "Someone who's been watching you wake up for a long time."
"Wake up?" Ethan's throat tightens. "What do you mean?"
The man's smirk is faint, knowing. "You've seen the edges of your world, Ethan. Don't look away next time."
Lightning tears through the sky, then the world shatters.
Ethan jerks awake, gasping. His living room feels colder.
The book lies open beside him, blank. Every page is empty.
His phone buzzes. 9:14 PM.
Outside, thunder rolls again, though the night sky is clear.
Then he sees it through the fogged window.
A figure standing beneath the flickering streetlight.
The man from his dream.
Their eyes meet. The man tilts his head, just slightly. Testing. Waiting.
Then
he vanishes into the mist.
Ethan's breath trembles. His heart races as he whispers to himself:
"Dreams don't end when you wake up.
Some just follow you home."