I stood in a field of dandelions, the evening sun setting them aglow. For a moment, my heart felt as though it had slipped into another reality—until a sound broke the calm.
A cry.
Flames erupted without warning, scorching every flower in sight. The scream echoed, crystal clear to my ears yet crushing to my chest. I ran into the fire.
A woman was tied to a tree trunk, her eyes bleeding, burning incense circling her like a ritual. I couldn't stand there and watch her die. Tears streamed down her skin, carving paths of loss. It felt as if I were inside her head, watching her world collapse in real time.
Little did I know, I was standing in hell.
I reached for her, desperate to untie the ropes—but she vanished.
Still, her presence lingered. Faint. Cold. Dark.
I turned.
The girl from my dreams stood before me. This time she was breathless, clawing at my shirt as if drowning. Her fingers dug in like a rake. A voice echoed, fading until only one sentence remained.
Ils me poursuivent, moi, l'homme au bocal.
That dream had haunted me ever since. I tried everything to forget it, but it refused to let go.
Emily twirled her pencil between her fingers. "It mustn't leave," she said. "It's part of your mission—awkward as that sounds. Since you've stepped into the spiritual arcane, these aren't just dreams anymore. They're memories. Memories of someone who once existed."
She paused, studying me.
"The words you heard were French," she continued. "'They're coming after me—the man with the jar.' Does that sound familiar? If it does, you'll need to open your mind and dig deeper. Just remember—things rarely unfold the way we expect."
"What's that?" I asked.
She shifted her gaze, rolled a small metal case between her fingers twice, then let it glide across the desk.
"I'll only tell you if you can link me to the shop where you bought this," she teased, stroking my necklace.
"I actually… don't know," I admitted. "Remember the day we met? After you showcased your talent?"
She nodded.
"That night, I couldn't sleep. Something kept pressing on me—telling me to look. My eyes landed on a rosary. I don't know where it came from, but I'll never trade it for anything."
Emily blushed. "I know who it belongs to. But I won't tell you."
"Then I won't return your charger," I said.
She laughed. "I'll just buy another one."
"Let me guess—Caleb?" I said. "He is basically the class chaplain."
"Nice try. No."
"Black hair. Light brown skin," she hinted.
"Mortega?"
"When she stares," Emily said quietly, "your blood boils. Her eyes trap you on repeat."
My heart slammed. "The girl from my dreams."
Emily met my gaze.
"How…?" I whispered.
"The day I met you," she said, "earlier that afternoon, I found her in the restroom. She was washing her face. I tried to help, but she ignored me. I could feel her pain, but she wouldn't speak it. She pushed me away. She never wanted anyone beside her."
She hesitated. "The only thing I noticed was her rosary."
"The type used in exorcisms," I said.
Emily shrugged. "Don't overthink it. Everyone has one these days. Even my grandma."
"What about back then?" I pressed.
"That's enough for today." Her voice shifted smoothly. "By the way, this is a prototype for a mega transformer. It regulates infinite voltage—steps it up or down."
"I'm still asking about the exorcism."
She smirked. "You're worried about her. I can tell."
"Nothing bad will happen," she added softly.
"Silence, class," the teacher called.
He began his lecture. "To understand the history of science, you must explore what goes unnoticed—things logic barely explains. Things that tear across time and fabric."
The lesson flowed like water. There was something about him that held my attention.
The door suddenly burst open.
The principal stepped inside.
"Good morning, class." Her voice was sharp but warm. "Today, I'm proud to welcome new members to our family."
She leaned toward the teacher. "By the way—Mr. Aaron. Good job. Call me."
The class groaned. "Prom date."
"Introduce yourselves," she said. "Welcome to Kingston."
Two students entered.
"The name's Judas Creed," said a tall, striking Black boy. "First time at school."
Andrea smirked. "This is a classroom, Creed. That thing's a pen."
No one laughed.
"I was homeschooled," Judas replied calmly. "Tutored by Oxford instructors. Hope I didn't steal the spotlight."
Every girl blushed.
"You may sit anywhere," Aaron said, clearly impressed.
"Thank you… Mr…?"
"Call me Aaron."
"Next," the principal urged.
"I—I'm Isabella," the girl said, her thick roadman accent shaking with her hands.
Laughter broke out from the corner clique.
Judas stepped back and took her hand.
"She is my sister."
Silence fell.
"She's white," someone whispered.
"Mum's white," Judas replied coolly.
He guided Isabella to a seat beside him, shielding her from the room's judgment.
"Well… that clears things up," the principal muttered.
She glanced around. "Has Lily reported yet?"
"She's late."
Footsteps thundered down the hall.
"Sorry, Ms. Keith," a girl gasped, clutching a tie. Bandages soaked with blood wrapped her arms.
I froze.
She was the girl from my dreams.