The dream always began with rain.
It whispered first— a soft tapping against glass— then grew violent, as if the night itself demanded entry. A single candle flickered somewhere beyond the dark, throwing gold light over shelves heavy with dust. I stood in that half-lit room, heart hammering, staring into a cracked mirror.
He waited there.
Tall. Still. The kind of stillness that didn't belong to the living. Eyes like wet emerald glass, watching me through the split reflection.
Every night I tried to speak his name. Every night the mirror shattered before I could.
And every night, I woke gasping.
I sat upright, skin clammy, the echo of those green eyes lingering behind my lids. The clock read 11:47 PM. I hadn't meant to fall asleep before my midnight appointment.
I swung my legs off the couch and padded barefoot to the kitchen, poured water with shaking hands. The city below my apartment was silent except for sirens far away and the restless hum of neon lights. Rain pressed its cold mouth to the windows.
Tonight's patient was new— and secret. He'd insisted on sessions only after midnight, paid in cash, double my fee. My colleagues would've called it reckless. I called it distraction.
Anything was better than the empty space my mother left when she died two years ago. Anything to stop the looping question of what I could have done differently.
I checked my reflection in the hallway mirror. Pale. Tired. Still the same faint scar at my collarbone— a childhood accident that no one remembered causing.
When the clock hands met at twelve, a knock sounded.
Three measured raps.
"Come in," I called, forcing steadiness into my voice.
The door opened, and the man from my dream stepped inside.
Dark hair slick with rain. Long black coat. A presence so heavy it seemed to change the pressure in the room. He paused in the doorway, gaze sweeping over my small office before settling on me.
"Dr. Clara Vance?"
His voice carried an old, deliberate calm— like someone who'd practiced each word for centuries.
"Yes." My throat went dry. "You must be Adrian Vale."
He inclined his head. "Thank you for agreeing to see me at this hour."
The door clicked shut behind him. The sound felt final.
"Please," I said, gesturing to the armchair across from mine. "Have a seat."
He moved without hurry, coat whispering against the leather. When he sat, the air cooled a degree; I felt it along my arms, like a ghost of breath.
For a few seconds neither of us spoke. The rain filled the silence, and the small brass clock on my desk ticked far too loudly.
"So," I said at last, flipping open my notebook. "Tell me what brings you here."
Adrian's gaze lifted, impossibly steady. "You help people who carry darkness they can't name, don't you?"
"I try to help them understand it."
"And if understanding changes nothing?"
"Then we keep talking," I said. "That's the work."
His mouth curved— not quite a smile. "You believe conversation can save people?"
"I believe silence can destroy them."
He leaned forward slightly. Candlelight caught the faint pattern of veins beneath his skin. "Then perhaps you can save me, Dr. Vance. If you're not afraid."
The challenge in his tone made my pulse leap. "Should I be?"
"That depends on what you see."
He reached for the small mirror sitting between us— the one I used in grounding exercises— and turned it toward me. My reflection met my eyes: wide, flushed, breathing too fast. He stood behind me now, close enough that I felt the cold of him before I dared to turn.
But in the mirror, the space behind me was empty.
My breath hitched. "What—"
His whisper brushed my ear. "Strange, isn't it?"
I spun around, heart racing. He was still there, only inches away, his eyes glimmering with dark amusement.
"Your hands are shaking," he murmured. "Do I unsettle you, Clara?"
"You're breaking confidentiality before we've begun," I managed.
That earned the softest laugh. "A fair point."
He sat again, as if nothing had happened. The mirror, still angled toward me, showed only one reflection.
I tried to continue the session, scribbling meaningless notes, but my fingers refused steadiness. "You said you wanted to be saved. From what?"
"From memory," he said simply. "From the things that never die."
Something in his eyes flickered— pain, maybe, or hunger disguised as sorrow. I caught myself staring at his mouth, at the way each word seemed to taste like restraint.
"You talk as if you've lived a long time," I said.
A pause. Then: "Long enough to regret most of it."
I should have laughed. Instead, my throat tightened. "Why come to me?"
"Because," he said quietly, "you remind me of someone who once tried."
"Who?"
His gaze locked on mine. "You."
The candle sputtered out, plunging the room into darkness.
My pulse thundered in my ears. For a heartbeat— or maybe longer— I felt his presence in front of me, close enough that the air itself trembled. The faint scent of rain, iron, and something sweet surrounded me. A whisper brushed my cheek.
"Tell me, Clara… do you still dream of me?"
The lights blinked back to life. The chair across from mine was empty. Only a few drops of water glistened on the floor where he'd stood.
---
Later that night…
I locked up the office three times before leaving. Still, the feeling of being watched followed me into the street. The rain had stopped; the world smelled of wet stone and secrets.
Halfway home, a shadow detached itself from an alley wall.
Adrian.
He leaned against the brick, coat collar turned up, eyes glinting beneath the streetlight.
"You left abruptly," he said.
"You disappeared."
"Did I?" His smile held the faintest cruelty. "Or did you imagine it?"
I took a step back. "What do you want?"
"To schedule another session." He moved closer, slow enough that I could've stopped him— but didn't. "Same hour. Tomorrow."
"Midnight again?"
"Of course. That's when the truth comes easiest."
He stopped a breath away. The air between us felt alive— electric, wrong, intoxicating. My pulse hammered, and I hated that he could probably hear it.
"You should go," I whispered.
Adrian's gaze dropped to my lips, then lifted back to my eyes. "If I go now, will you still dream of me?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned, and with the next blink of the streetlight, he was gone. Vanished into the wet shimmer of the city.
I stood there until the silence pressed too hard against my ribs. When I finally reached my apartment, the mirror above my dresser had cracked clean through its center.
And reflected faintly in the broken glass were two sets of eyes— mine, and his— blinking in perfect unison.