Ethan didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
He sat curled on the edge of his bed, eyes glued to the mirror across the room—the same mirror that had, for a split second, reflected something else. Something wrong.
The whisper still echoed in his mind.
Welcome, Dreamweaver…
As if the voice had folded itself into his thoughts.
Dawn came slowly, staining the sky with pale gray. Birds chirped faintly outside his window, the sound so normal it almost felt insulting. Ethan rubbed at his temples. His hands trembled.
It had to have been a dream. That was the only explanation. The system messages, the monster with an inverted face, the twisted version of Mia, the glowing wall he somehow imagined into existence—all of it couldn't be real.
But it felt real.
Too real.
And that whisper hadn't gone away. It sat like a pressure just behind his thoughts, waiting.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A message from Jared.
> Jared:
u good man? u screamed last night.
thought u were being murdered 💀
Ethan blinked at the screen. He hadn't even heard himself. His throat did feel raw, now that he thought about it.
> Ethan:
sorry. bad dream.
didn't mean to wake you.
Jared's reply came instantly.
> Jared:
nah it's cool.
just don't turn into a demon or anything.
Ethan stared at that sentence longer than he should have.
He got up, pulled on a hoodie, and splashed water on his face in the bathroom. The mirror steamed from the heat. He wiped it down.
This time, the reflection was normal.
Just him. Tired. Pale. Hollow-eyed.
He left for campus early, backpack slung over one shoulder, hood up against the cold morning air. The world looked washed out—like the color hadn't loaded properly. His classmates milled around the quad in small clusters, laughing and chatting like everything was normal.
But something had shifted. Ethan felt it in the weight of the air, in the way shadows stretched just a little too far, in how birds seemed to fall silent when he passed.
He didn't go to class.
Instead, he found himself walking aimlessly. Past the old clocktower. Past the sculpture garden with its crumbling stone angels. Eventually, he stopped in front of the library—a tall, ancient building most students avoided unless they were cramming for finals.
Its gothic architecture cast long shadows in the morning light.
He hesitated. Then went in.
---
The library's third floor was nearly deserted. Dust hung in golden rays from stained-glass windows. Rows of ancient books sat on sagging shelves, the silence thick enough to drown in.
He didn't know why he was there.
But part of him was pulled—like the whisper had left a trail behind it.
And then he saw her.
A girl sitting cross-legged in the far corner, sketching something in a notebook.
She was around his age—maybe nineteen—with short black hair streaked with faint lavender, tucked messily behind one ear. A faded denim jacket hung off one shoulder. Earbuds dangled around her neck, not in use.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
Ethan almost turned away—until he saw what she was drawing.
Not flowers. Not landscapes.
Monsters.
One had a head split like an open book, with screaming pages spilling out. Another was a tall, thin man with an upside-down face.
His blood went cold.
That… was the thing from his dream.
He stepped forward, voice hesitant. "Excuse me… where did you see that?"
She looked up calmly, studying him with eyes the color of wet ink. "See what?"
He pointed at the upside-down face.
"That one. I… I saw it. Last night."
Her pencil stilled. For a moment, she didn't speak.
Then she flipped the sketchbook closed. "You shouldn't be able to remember."
"What?"
"You're not supposed to remember the Veil. That's how it keeps itself hidden. Most people forget the second they wake up."
Ethan stared at her.
She sighed, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Come on. You need answers. And I'm not explaining this in a library."
---
They walked in silence until they reached the abandoned amphitheater behind the philosophy hall. Ivy choked the crumbling stone seats. The stage was cracked and sun-bleached. She hopped up on it, then turned and faced him.
"You were marked," she said simply. "That's how it starts. You fell in by accident—most of us do the first time. But something let you remember."
"I'm not… crazy?" Ethan asked quietly.
The girl snorted. "No crazier than the rest of us." She extended a hand. "I'm Lila."
"Ethan."
They shook. Her grip was firm. Grounding.
He exhaled.
"You said 'us.' There are more people like me?"
Lila nodded. "Dreamers. That's what I call us. People who crossed into the Dreamrift and survived. Most can't handle it. Their minds unravel. Or they forget completely. But a few of us… we change."
He hesitated. "What is it, exactly? The Dreamrift."
Lila looked away, toward the rustling trees. "It's… the hollow space between realities. A bleeding place. Where the subconscious becomes real. Nightmares. Memories. Regrets. Sometimes even your imagination turns on you."
"Like my sister," Ethan said quietly.
Lila glanced at him. "Was it her? Or a version of her?"
He looked down. "I don't know anymore."
"That's how it works. The Veil tears things apart. Rebuilds them wrong. If you hold on to something too tightly, it uses it against you."
Ethan's fingers curled into fists. "I felt like I was dying. It was so real."
"Because it is real. Just not here." She paused. "You're probably still partially synced. You're not done."
"What do you mean?"
She stood, brushing off her jeans. "There are levels to the Rift. Layers. You passed through one of the outermost—probably Level One. That's where most people end up first. But the deeper you go, the less... human the place becomes. Time bends. Things mutate. Nightmares learn your name."
Ethan's heart beat faster. "Why me?"
She turned toward him. "I don't know. But if you triggered a system message—"
"I did."
Lila's expression darkened. "Then you've been chosen."
He swallowed hard. "By what?"
"We don't know. Some think it's the Rift itself. Others think there's something at the center… something old. A being that feeds on dreams. On us." Her voice dropped. "We call it the Dream Devourer."
Ethan felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.
"I just want it to stop," he said.
Lila looked at him carefully. "You can't undo it. Not completely. But you can fight it. And if you're a Dreamweaver…" she let the word hang, testing it.
He nodded slowly.
"Then you're more important than you think."
---
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the theater, Lila showing him sketches—maps of distorted dreamscapes, symbols she'd seen in her own visions, notes from people who had vanished.
Ethan asked questions. Lila answered what she could.
She'd been to the Rift four times. Each one had scarred her in a different way. Her first had ended with her waking up in a field with blood on her palms and no memory of how she'd escaped. Her second had cost her a friend—someone who never woke up. By the third time, she'd stopped running from it. Now she documented everything she could.
They didn't talk about families. Or school. Or grades. Just the Rift.
"Do you think it's trying to reach into our world?" Ethan asked.
Lila hesitated. "I think it already is. People are having more vivid dreams. Sleepwalking into traffic. There's a girl in my dorm who woke up with scratches on her arms—scratches she dreamed about. The boundaries are cracking."
Ethan shivered.
When the sun dipped low, Lila walked him back toward the dorms.
"Try not to sleep too deeply tonight," she said. "If you hear the lullaby, run."
He nodded.
Just before she turned the corner, she looked back.
"Ethan… If the Rift really chose you, that means it sees something in you. Maybe something powerful. Maybe something dangerous. Either way… you're not alone anymore."
Then she vanished into the trees.
Ethan stood under the first stars, heart full of dread and hope in equal measure.
He didn't feel strong.
But he wasn't alone.
And the next time he stepped into the Rift…
He'd be ready.