It started with a dream.
Amelia wasn't sure if it was a dream at all—more like a memory she had never lived, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.
She stood in the middle of a vast field, the air thick with the scent of rain and something sweeter, something familiar. A soft breeze carried laughter, distant and warm, like an echo of something half-remembered. The sky above her was painted in deep indigo, speckled with stars so bright they looked close enough to touch.
And then, she saw her.
Celeste.
She stood barefoot in the grass, her long hair shifting in the wind, wearing a white dress that shimmered like the surface of a lake under moonlight. She was looking at Amelia, but there was something unreadable in her expression—something distant, almost sorrowful.
Amelia tried to move toward her, but the ground beneath her feet softened, turning into paint, thick and inky, pulling her down.
Celeste's lips parted.
"Wake up."
The world collapsed around her.
—
Amelia gasped awake, her heart slamming against her ribs.
For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The dream clung to her, heavy and thick like wet paint refusing to dry. The scent of rain still lingered in her mind, the sound of laughter just out of reach.
The apartment was dark, save for the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the window. The room was quiet. Too quiet.
She turned her head.
Celeste's makeshift bed was empty.
A strange chill crept up Amelia's spine. Celeste was always there when she woke up. It had become an unspoken certainty, a quiet reassurance that no matter how impossible this was, Celeste was real. She was here.
Except now, she wasn't.
Panic began to coil in Amelia's chest. Where would she go? She doesn't know the city—she doesn't know anything outside this apartment.
She pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed, her bare feet pressing against the cold wooden floor. "Celeste?" she called softly.
No answer.
Her stomach twisted as she walked into the living room, scanning the space. The record player was still, the books untouched, the remnants of their dinner sitting on the counter. Everything was exactly as it should be.
Except Celeste was gone.
The panic in Amelia's chest tightened. She hurried toward the window, her fingers trembling as she reached for the curtain.
And then—
A shadow moved beyond the glass.
Amelia's breath hitched. She pushed the curtain aside and peered out into the night.
Celeste stood outside, barefoot on the fire escape, staring up at the sky.
Relief crashed over Amelia so fast it almost made her dizzy. But beneath it, something deeper stirred—something like unease.
She fumbled with the window latch, pushing it open. Cold air rushed into the apartment, biting against her skin. "Celeste," she called softly. "What are you doing out here?"
Celeste didn't turn at first. Her gaze remained fixed on the stars, as if they were whispering something only she could hear.
"I couldn't sleep," Celeste murmured.
Amelia hesitated for only a second before stepping onto the fire escape. The metal was cold beneath her feet, but she ignored it. She folded her arms against the chill, studying Celeste carefully. "Are you okay?"
Celeste was quiet for a long moment before she finally whispered, "I think I'm remembering something."
Amelia's breath caught. "What?"
Celeste finally turned to look at her, her eyes filled with something Amelia couldn't quite name.
"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But it feels… important."
Amelia's pulse quickened.
A memory? But from where? Celeste had no past—no life before the night she stepped out of the painting. So what was she remembering?
And why did it feel like the answer might change everything?
Celeste turned her gaze back to the sky, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you think dreams can be memories from another life?"
Amelia didn't know how to answer that.
Instead, she found herself staring at Celeste, her heartbeat still unsteady. The stars reflected in Celeste's eyes, making them look impossibly deep, like pools of color not yet fully dried on a canvas.
She looked otherworldly.
She was otherworldly.
Amelia swallowed hard. "What did you dream about?"
Celeste hesitated, as if trying to piece together something fragile. "I was somewhere… vast. Open skies, tall grass. There was wind. And you were there."
A shiver ran down Amelia's spine. "Me?"
Celeste nodded, but her brows knitted in concentration. "You weren't painting. But I knew you. It felt like…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I don't know. It felt like we were somewhere else. Somewhere that mattered."
Somewhere that mattered.
Amelia's hands tightened into fists at her sides. She had never spoken to Celeste about her own dream—the field, the wind, the feeling of something just out of reach. But Celeste was describing it exactly.
Which meant—
It wasn't just a dream.
Something else was happening. Something Amelia couldn't explain.
She swallowed against the knot in her throat. "Do you think it means something?"
Celeste was quiet for a long time. Then, slowly, she nodded. "Yes."
A single word, but it sent a chill down Amelia's spine.
She exhaled shakily, trying to focus on something real, something tangible. "Come back inside. You'll freeze out here."
Celeste looked at her for a moment longer before nodding. Without another word, she stepped through the window, back into the apartment.
Amelia lingered on the fire escape for just a second longer, staring up at the sky.
Something was shifting. She could feel it.
And no matter how much she tried to ignore it, the truth was clear.
Celeste wasn't just a girl who had stepped out of a painting.
She was something more.
And Amelia wasn't sure she was ready to find out what that meant.