In the room where the silence of the dawn induced the deepest dreams, the white curtains swayed, obeying the wind that filtered through the half-open window. The fabric brushed the floor with a rhythmic murmur, an insistent, alien breath in the darkness. There, a man woke abruptly, stifled by an ancient nightmare that returned from the shadows to torment him once more.
His breath was cut short, dry and hot. Cold sweat soaked his forehead and his body felt feverish. The dampness of the sheets clung to his skin.
He freed himself from the fabric that suffocated him, seeking the nighttime freshness. His movements were brusque, desperate to break contact with the mattress that held the shape of his terror.
He climbed out of bed and walked barefoot to the window. The floor was cold. His fingers gripped the fabric of the curtains before looking down at the deserted avenue beneath his building. Sparse cars continued their indifferent transit, yellow headlights cutting through the darkness of the low night. On the other side of the street, there was only a solitary planter, illuminated by the dim light of a streetlamp. The plant within it seemed withered, leaning toward the shadow of the pole.
He let out a sound that resembled a snort, an anguished and pitiful sigh. The vapor of his breath was briefly visible in the cold air. He looked at the clock: the numbers glowed as they always did. Hours remained before the sun would reign in the sky and his routine life would regain its course, but time crawled, each second gravitating heavily around him.
He stepped back, closing the curtains with a sharp gesture, and headed to the bathroom. The click of the switch sounded too loud in the silence of the apartment. He could feel his heart fluttering in his chest like a caged bird. The rhythm was erratic, striking his ribs from within. Not even the freezing water of the shower managed to calm the frenetic pace of his heartbeat. The jets struck his skin without cleansing the sensation of internal filth, without washing away the image of the shadows that pursued him behind his eyelids.
At 7:00 a.m., he was already prepared to leave his apartment. The sky was beginning to tint with grayish and blue tones. The light of dawn was pale but pleasant. The outskirts of the building were cold and bright, a place where shadows had no room. The concrete reflected the nascent clarity, creating a painful contrast for his tired eyes.
He descended the steps of the exit without looking away from the exact spot where the planter adorned the other side of the street. His gaze was fixed on that specific spot, searching for something that was not visible, a presence he believed was still there.
A car stopped without him making any signal. The engine purred softly before coming to a complete halt. The driver, with a familiar face, opened the door for him, reminding him that he had to follow his routine: work, the temple, breakfast, and then... The list was a habit of normalcy imposed over certain nights of chaos, like the one that had just passed.
The buildings of Zheir were reflected in the car windows. The steel towers were distorted in the curved glass, creating oneiric images of the city. His distant gaze frequently lost itself in the void, even as the vehicle was covered by the immense shadow of the temple he usually visited. The darkness of the car was preferable to the exterior light.
The light yellow stone of the construction seemed to shine with its own light, and its enormous solid wood doors were open, allowing the faithful to pass. The structure rose imposingly, a fortress of faith.
—Your face is pale. Have you slept well, Dan?
A delicate voice pulled him from his reverie. It was Ana, a young woman with a serene face, black hair, and modest clothes. She was standing by the open door, waiting for him with her usual patience.
He looked at her with his reddened eyes, marked by dark circles upon his skin. His semi-absent attention softened upon meeting those brown eyes, so expressive and full of life. For a second, the noise in his head diminished.
—You've had another nightmare, haven't you?
The question was not a reproach, but a sad realization. Unable to feign indifference, Dan blinked slowly and stepped out of the car. The outside air was fresher than inside the vehicle. His feet touched the pavement with hesitation.
—You should enter the temple sometime.
Ana took a step toward him. Her presence was warm, a contrast to the ice he carried inside.
—Hm! In that case, I prefer to have nightmares my whole life.
The response came out defensively. Dan averted his gaze toward the temple doors, avoiding her scrutiny.
—Prayers can work miracles and reward you.
Ana insisted, not noticing or not caring about his cynicism. Her hands intertwined in front of her, a gesture of genuine faith.
—Just for having to listen to you, I should be rewarded.
The contradiction in his words did not have a negative tone; Dan was smiling, even if his phrases sounded like dangerous complaints. He smiled, a tired but real gesture. Ana brushed the tips of her delicate fingers against the man's cheeks, drawn to the dark shadows beneath his eyes. The contact was soft, barely a touch that sought to mend.
Dan was a pitiful case: for more than 20 years, he would wake in the nights gasping, stifled by recurring nightmares. Incurable, unforgettable, dreams that repeated over and over, sometimes insistent, other times relenting.
Dark dreams about something sinister that took control of his unconscious through shadows that waited in the darkness, watching him. They were not random images; they were specific scenes, memories of something he had never lived. Thus he moved through life, doubting what was real and what was delusion. The line between insomnia and sleep had blurred years ago.
—Ana, let me stay like this for a moment.
Dan's voice sounded broken, a temporary surrender. He leaned his head upon the young woman's light shoulders, pretending to reclaim the sleep lost since dawn. Her scent was clean, like soap and floral essences, with no trace of blood. She possessed a special power: that of making the shadows that haunted him blurred and distant. Only in her presence did the blood-red moon and the creaking wind of his nightmares seem to be just that... nightmares that vanish upon opening one's eyes. The weight on his shoulders lightened slightly as he leaned on her.
But Dan knew, deep down, that his shadows would never fully leave. They only hid, waiting for the perfect moment to return. Even under the sunlight, even in the arms of faith, he felt the fixed gaze of something watching from the edges of his vision.
♱⏾⋆.˚