I lingered over breakfast longer than I meant to.
The rain had settled into a steady, polite drizzle—the kind that made the city feel smaller, quieter, like it was all holding its breath with me. I sat at the little table by the window, mug cradled between my hands, watching droplets race down the glass. One won. Another followed. Simple things. Comforting things.
The tea tasted exactly how I remembered it. Too weak, technically. I always meant to use two bags and never did. The warmth seeped into my fingers, then my chest, easing something tight I hadn't noticed was there until it loosened.
I sighed.
"Guess I really needed the sleep," I muttered to no one.
The dream lingered anyway. Not sharply—more like an afterimage you get from staring at a light too long. Long tunnels. Stone carved with symbols that made my head ache if I focused on them. Faces half-lit by gold and shadow. A woman's voice calling my name, urgent, annoyed, familiar—
I frowned into my cup.
"Bureau of Anomalous Affairs, huh," I said with a soft, embarrassed laugh. "Guess my brain finally ran out of normal nightmares."
It had all been very elaborate. Almost impressive. An entire other world, stitched together from stress and bad sleep and one too many late nights reading old reports and fringe theories. I could still remember the feeling of it more than the details—the constant tension, the way danger sat just behind every decision. The weight of responsibility that never quite left your shoulders.
I shook my head.
No wonder I'd dreamed up an escape.
I finished my tea and rinsed the mug, moving on autopilot. The routine was muscle memory—easy, grounding. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and old books. Outside, a car passed, tires hissing softly against wet pavement.
Normal.
Safe.
I glanced at the clock and blinked. Late morning already. I should probably do something productive. Or not. For once, there was no schedule breathing down my neck. No briefing. No mission clock ticking toward something awful.
The thought brought a quiet, guilty relief.
"Nothing's going to explode if I take it slow," I told myself, half-amused. "Imagine that."
I drifted back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, absently straightening the sheets. My phone buzzed once on the nightstand—a notification from some app I barely remembered installing. I didn't check it. It could wait.
Everything could wait.
The dream tried to resurface again as I leaned back, staring at the ceiling crack. Faces without names. A sense of movement, of being pulled forward whether I wanted to be or not. And beneath it all, a strange, persistent pressure—like someone standing just outside a closed door.
I rolled onto my side.
"Enough," I murmured. "You're awake now."
The pressure eased. Or maybe I just stopped paying attention to it.
I closed my eyes, not to sleep, just to rest them for a second. The rain grew louder, filling the silence, smoothing over the rough edges of thought. My breathing slowed.
'This was good.'
'This was what I'd wanted, wasn't it?'
'No voices in my head. No impossible choices.'
'No sense that the world might end if I hesitated at the wrong moment.'
'Just me. My apartment. A quiet morning.'
A faint tug brushed my awareness again—insistent, almost pleading — but I shifted, burrowing deeper into the mattress, and it slipped away.
Whatever it was, it could wait.
I smiled to myself, eyes still closed, already forgetting why I'd ever thought I needed to wake up at all.
The day unfolded without any sense of urgency.
I cleaned because it felt like the right thing to do, not because a schedule demanded it. Dishes first — there weren't many — then the desk. I stacked old notebooks, tossed a few crumpled receipts, wiped dust from the surface with the sleeve of my shirt. The half-dead plant by the window got watered for once. Its leaves perked up almost immediately, as if surprised I'd remembered it existed.
"Would you look at that," I murmured. "Guess you just needed a little attention."
For some reason, that thought tugged at something in my chest.
As I worked, my mind wandered. It kept circling back to the dream, uninvited but not unwelcome. Faces surfaced, clearer now in the quiet repetition of mundane tasks. Theo's lopsided grin. Mira's sharp eyes, always watching everything at once. Sera's beautiful smile.
And Aetherion.
I paused, rag still in hand.
He'd been… loud, in his own way. Always there. Always commenting. Dry remarks, half-cryptic advice, irritation masquerading as amusement. In the dream, he'd felt less like a voice and more like a presence leaning over my shoulder, watching the same horizon I was.
"Yeah Aetherion," I said softly, shaking my head. "You were the weirdest part."
I almost expected a retort. Some snide comment about my poor life choices or the state of my apartment.
Nothing came.
The silence that followed was deep and unbroken. Not empty — just… still. I finished wiping the desk and moved on.
Laundry came next. I gathered clothes from the bedroom and bathroom, stuffing them into the machine downstairs. The hum and churn was oddly soothing. While it ran, I laced up my shoes and stepped outside.
The rain had eased into a mist. The air smelled clean, washed raw by water and time. I started jogging without much thought, letting my feet find their rhythm on familiar streets. Each breath came easy. My body felt light, responsive—no lingering aches, no exhaustion clinging to my bones.
As I ran, fragments of the dream surfaced again.
A city I didn't recognize, all stone and shadow. A tunnel carved with symbols that seemed to watch you if you stared too long. A feeling of being guided toward something important, something dangerous.
I slowed to a walk, heart beating steady.
"Wild," I muttered. "My brain really went all out."
I tried to picture the end of it—how it had concluded—but the memory slid away every time I reached for it. Like waking from a dream and losing the last detail the moment you try to explain it.
Probably for the best.
I finished the jog, stretched a little, and headed home. The laundry was done by then. I folded everything neatly, enjoying the warmth of clean fabric. Another small, satisfying victory.
Later, I drew a bath.
Steam curled along the ceiling as I sank into the water, muscles loosening. I closed my eyes and let myself drift, thoughts slow and heavy. Faces passed through my mind again — Silva standing with her arms crossed, Theo complaining about something trivial, Mira watching my back without ever saying she was.
I smiled faintly.
"They felt real," I admitted to the empty room. "Guess that's how you know a dream's a good one... even if it seemed like a nightmare at times."
The water lapped quietly against the tub. The world felt contained, manageable.
Content.
Somewhere, far beneath that feeling, something waited. But I didn't notice it.
I stayed in the bath until the water cooled, until my fingers wrinkled and my thoughts blurred at the edges. When I finally stood, wrapped in a towel, the mirror showed a familiar face—tired, maybe, but peaceful.
No cracks. No shadows behind the eyes.
I nodded at my reflection.
"Yeah," I said. "This is better."
And for the rest of the day, nothing contradicted me.