A stream of sunlight slips through the bedroom window, casting a golden glow across the room, yet Grace can't summon the strength to move.
The weight of her body pins her to the bed, and every muscle feels as though it's made of lead. Her head aches relentlessly, a dull throb that seems to pulse in time with her heartbeat. Her throat burns, raw and painful, as if she's caught the worst flu imaginable.
"Oh, this is not a joke…" Grace murmurs, barely able to form the words. Her voice comes out hoarse and weak.
She reaches for her phone, squinting at the screen. A flood of texts flood her notifications, but she ignores them, her fingers trembling as she dials her mom's number.
"Mom…" she rasps when the call connects.
"Yes, honey? Are you all right? Your voice sounds off," her mom's voice comes through, full of concern.
"Yeah, I thought I'd be better after a good sleep, but I guess it's worse. I can't even move…"
Grace's words are barely audible, choked by the soreness in her throat.
"Why don't you take the pill right now?" her mom suggests, a note of worry creeping into her voice.
Grace hesitates. She hates taking medication, but the idea of waiting it out seems unbearable.
"All right. My throat... it's throbbing so much, and my head—it's killing me," she admits, her voice strained with exhaustion.
"Okay. I think it could be the flu going around. You should skip school today and get some rest."
Grace nods, though her mom can't see it.
"All right, I'll do that."
She ends the call and immediately reaches for her phone again, dialing Harry's number.
"Harry…" she says, her voice still rough.
"What's with your voice?" Harry's tone is concerned, surprised even.
"I think it's the flu. I'm not sure, but the symptoms match up. I don't think I can make it to class," she explains, the words slipping out between labored breaths.
"Yeah, your voice is really off. Get some rest. I'll make sure you don't miss anything. I'll send you the class notes later after the lecture," Harry's voice is kind and steady, comforting her in her weakened state.
Grace feels a wave of gratitude wash over her.
He really is a good friend.
"Thank you so much, Harry… See ya," she says, her voice quieter now, tinged with appreciation.
"Get well soon, Grace. Take care," he says, his warmth lingering in her ears as she ends the call.
Grace drops the phone onto the bed with a soft thud, staring up at the ceiling, her mind spinning.
"This is just too much," she mutters, her headache throbbing in time with her pulse.
With a sigh, she pulls the blanket up over her face, trying to block out the ache that spreads through her body. Within moments, the exhaustion takes over, and she slips back into a deep sleep.
The dream comes to her in the quiet hours of the afternoon. It's a dream she hasn't had in so long and a dream she's wanted to reunite with so much since she's written it as a novel.
It's vivid, almost tangible. The world is different, the colors are brighter, and the air tastes sweeter. Grace can feel the cool breeze against her skin as she walks through a familiar place, a place she recognizes but can't quite name.
Grace jerks awake with a sharp gasp, her breath ragged. She presses her hand to her chest, feeling the pounding of her heart against her ribs. The remnants of the dream linger in her mind, and she's left breathless, overwhelmed by the emotions it stirs inside her.
"Hah…" She exhales shakily, still feeling the weight of the dream, her head spinning from the intensity of it.
"I'm back with that dream…" she whispers to herself, still in a daze. "And my name was... Hannah."
The words seem to hang in the air around her, unsettling in their familiarity.
Grace slowly pushes herself upright, feeling the heaviness of her body. Her head throbs, her nose is running, but she drags herself toward the desk. She grabs her laptop, the motion slow and labored, and climbs back into bed, pulling the covers around her like a shield.
She opens the laptop, her fingers trembling as she navigates to the doc where she recorded this dream from before. Despite the pain in her head and the fog of illness clouding her thoughts, she feels a surge of urgency. She remembers the dream and she knows she can't let it slip away. She feels the need to record every detail accurately so she can later revise it into a novel.
"I can't miss this dream…"
With a deep breath, she begins to type.
[Across the street, antique buildings lined the road, their old stone facades casting long shadows in the bright summer sunlight streaming through the city.
I followed the guy from a distance, the one who had just saved me from those soldiers who'd been about to arrest me.
The guy was tall—probably around six feet—and I couldn't take my eyes off him as I trailed behind, studying his back. That's all I could see of him right now. He wore a white collared shirt and black denim jeans. The clothes fit him perfectly—not too loose, not too tight. Simple and neat, but somehow they suited him well.
He suddenly stopped in his tracks. I froze, unsure of what to do next. Slowly, he turned around, and his earnest, dark eyes pierced right through me. His face was symmetrical, with a sharp nose and thin lips—perfectly shaped yet soft. His hair was tousled, but it looked like it was deliberately messy, neat in its own way, as if he didn't care too much about how it looked.
As he faced me, I couldn't help but notice how much he resembled Professor Julian Lenter…
"Stop following me," he said in a calm, measured voice.
"…But…" I stammered. A slight pang of sadness settled in me at his words. Why did he want me to stop following him?
He turned away again, resuming his walk down the street. But his footsteps slowed, almost as if he was signaling me it was okay to keep following him. So I did.
After about a minute, he turned once more.
"Girl," he said, his voice deep and sincere, "You need to go where you have to go."
"…But I don't have anywhere to go," I whispered, my heart tightening.
He hesitated for a moment, as if he hadn't expected me to answer like that.
I pressed on, feeling the weight of my words hanging between us. "My home's already been bombed, and I've lost my family. We were running away from the soldiers, and we just… scattered, trying not to get caught. I've been alone on the streets for days now, running from them."
His eyes softened, the look in them full of quiet understanding and something like sorrow. It was as if he could feel my pain, even though he barely knew me.
"Okay then," he said after a long pause, his voice gentler now, "Just for today… follow me."
I didn't hesitate. I walked quickly to his side, and he didn't move, waiting for me. As soon as I stood beside him, he resumed walking.
We didn't go far. Just ahead, an old car from the early 1900s was parked by the side of the road, its engine idling. Julian slid into the driver's seat without a word. He didn't ask me to get in, but I climbed into the passenger seat anyway. He inserted the key into the ignition, and the engine roared to life with a loud sputter.
"Just today…" he said with a soft sigh, his voice quiet, almost resigned.
I nodded, a small gesture of gratitude. A strange sense of relief washed over me, and I felt safer than I had in days, even though I didn't know where we were headed.
I glanced out the front window of the car, taking in the view of the city. The streets were lined with those old buildings, and the cars around us looked just as antique as the one we were driving in. The city felt like a different world, like I'd somehow stepped back in time. We drove for about an hour in silence.
Neither of us spoke. Normally, I would have tried to make small talk, but today I couldn't bring myself to say anything. I felt guilty, like I was imposing too much on him. He'd already saved me from the soldiers, and now I was asking him to take me somewhere—somewhere I didn't even know. I could hardly blame him for being annoyed.
Yet, there was something comforting about being with him. The outside world felt so dangerous, and he, somehow, felt like my protector—an angel sent by God.
Soon after, the car rolled to a stop in front of a large, factory-like building—brown, plain, and looming in the fading light.
He unplugged the car key with a soft click.
"Come. Follow me," he said—the first words he had spoken in over an hour.
I nodded silently, a quiet surge of gratitude swelling in my chest. Even if it was just for a night, the fact that he was offering me a place to stay meant more than I could put into words.
I stepped out and trailed behind him.
He walked ahead without looking back, his figure cutting a clear path toward the entrance of the massive building. I followed, my footsteps echoing faintly against the concrete.
Inside, the space opened into a hollow, cavernous lobby.
Empty. Cold.
The walls were bare, the ceiling unfinished, wires curling from exposed beams. It felt less like a building and more like the skeleton of one—half-constructed and abandoned mid-thought.
This place wasn't made to feel like home. But somehow, I was still relieved to be there.