Ethan woke before dawn. In the thin darkness of his room, reality felt blurred. A dream still lingered behind his eyelids—a whisper and a shadow at the corner of his vision. He lay still, listening to the quiet hum of the house as it settled around him, heart thumping in the silence. He used to struggle out of bed feeling heavy some mornings, but never with a mind this clouded.
His bedroom was cluttered. A framed photo on the desk caught his eye. In it, his younger sister Mia smiled under a summer sun. Guilt knotted in Ethan's stomach. Mia's death had been months ago, but each morning it felt as fresh as that last day. He wondered when the ache in his chest would ever fade.
He swung his legs out of bed. In the mirror by the closet, he caught sight of dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He ran a hand through his tangled hair. "Just a bad dream," he muttered. The mirror briefly showed a flicker behind him, like a ripple in the darkness. He stared—but nothing was there. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to believe it was just his mind playing tricks.
Downstairs, the house was warm and quiet. His roommate Jared was still half-asleep at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea. The smell of coffee and toast lingered in the air. Jared's hair was mussed from sleep. "Rough night?" Jared asked groggily, noticing Ethan's exhaustion. Ethan nodded and poured himself a glass of orange juice. The first sip was sour and bitter against the morning chill. Breakfast passed in silence, the soft clink of dishes the only sound. Finally, Ethan grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He gave Jared a small, tired smile. "Be safe," he said softly to his roommate, and Jared gave a half-wave in reply. Then Ethan stepped out into the morning drizzle.
He walked through the quiet campus. Ancient oaks and maples dripped rain onto the stone paths. The damp earth smelled of moss and pine. The world seemed muted, colors drained into gray. Each step felt heavy, as if he were a ghost among the waking students. A distant clocktower struck an uneven hour, its echoes lost in the fog. As he passed under a streetlamp, it flickered and died, plunging him into brief darkness. He shivered and kept moving, deciding on impulse to head toward the counseling center that Professor Langley had mentioned.
The old classroom building loomed ahead. Inside, corridors smelled of polished wood and chalk dust. Taking a seat at the back of the lecture hall, Ethan tried to focus on Professor Langley's lesson about dreams in literature. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead; the wooden chair felt hard against his back. But Langley's words drifted over Ethan like a faraway echo. Every mention of "dream" tugged at a hidden place in his chest.
Langley spoke of dreams as a canvas between worlds, of myth and memory. Ethan's gaze wandered to the window, remembering Mia playing hide-and-seek in the woods. He recalled her laughter, how it had turned to terror that last day. His stomach clenched. Langley paused and peered at Ethan. "Ethan?" he said softly. "Everything all right?"
The question jolted Ethan back. He managed a weak smile. "Sorry, Professor. I'm… fine." Langley's eyes were kind and concerned. "You look tired. It might help to talk with someone. The counseling center on campus is good," he said quietly. Ethan's throat tightened. He nodded. "Thank you." The lecture ended soon after. Ethan gathered his books and left the classroom, footsteps echoing down the empty hallway.
Outside, the rain had stopped and the sky was bruised purple. Lamp posts cast halos of light through the mist. Ethan started walking home, the evening air cool against his face. He thought of Langley's words: counseling might help. He was so used to being strong for others that he almost felt guilty needing help himself. Yet, almost on impulse, he turned toward the counseling center instead.
Inside the counseling building, Dr. Marlowe greeted him gently. He sat down on a worn couch, feeling embarrassed to have come so far. Under soft lamplight, Ethan told her about the nightmares and whispers—how sometimes he thought he saw Mia moving just out of sight. He described the hopeless feeling that came when he woke up alone, as if he'd been abandoned at the border of sleep. Dr. Marlowe listened carefully, nodding. "Your mind is trying to cope," she said softly. "Grief can make memories feel real. You're not losing yourself," she finished. Ethan picked up the brochure she handed him and managed a weak nod, a little of the tension easing.
Dr. Marlowe offered him a glass of water. He took a sip, feeling a moment of comfort from the kindness. "When we lose someone we love deeply," she explained, "it's natural for memories to haunt us. But talking helps. You're not alone, Ethan." She handed him a small pamphlet about support groups and grounding techniques. As he left, the knot in Ethan's chest felt a little looser, although the guilt of needing help lingered.
He paused outside for a moment, staring at the empty quad. In that hushed stillness he realized something: he was searching, however blindly, for a way to keep living. He felt lost, but maybe this was the first step to finding a path forward.
He stepped back out under the starless sky. The campus was empty and still, peaceful in a way that reminded him too much of how it felt without Mia. He walked beneath the flickering streetlamps, the sound of his footsteps muffled on the wet pavement. A breeze whispered secrets through the bare branches. Ethan paused, hearing a faint echo of laughter drift behind him—too light, too familiar. His pulse raced. Was that Mia? He whirled around. The walkway was empty, only leaves swirling in the air. Shaking off the chill crawling up his spine, he started home again.
The streetlight near his house flickered to life as he approached. Inside, the front room was quiet and still. Jared was asleep on the couch, a blanket tangled around his legs, soft snores filling the silence. The TV was paused on a cartoon with a glowing moon. Ethan tiptoed to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. The cold glass felt heavy in his hand. He took a deep swallow and felt the last of his wakefulness slip away.
In the black reflection of the refrigerator door, Ethan thought he saw movement. He froze, heart leaping, and slowly turned around—nothing. The knife block on the counter and a teapot on the stove were all that met his gaze. He set the glass down, breath shaking slightly. Get a grip, he chided himself, though the house still felt too quiet. He had been on edge all day.
He headed upstairs to bed. At his desk, moonlight caught Mia's photo once more. Ethan sat on the bed, looking at her smiling face. He whispered, "I hope you can hear me." He brushed a lock of hair off the frame, then switched off the lamp and slid under the covers, pulling them up to his chin.
For a while, there was only silence. Ethan listened to the ticking clock and the steady rhythm of his own breathing. Then—just as sleep began to tug at his eyelids—he heard it. A faint, distant whisper: "Ethan…" He froze. The curtains trembled slightly, though no wind blew through the closed window. Moonlight painted pale silver shapes on the walls.
Something moved in the corner of his eye. Ethan's heart thumped as he sat up. A figure stood at the edge of the moonlit patch. A little girl with dark eyes and a faint, knowing smile. The simple white dress she wore shimmered oddly at the edges, dissolving into the darkness. It was Mia—or something that wore Mia's face.
"Mia?" he whispered, but the girl only tilted her head and smiled again. The room felt impossibly still, as if the air around her held its breath. Ethan felt drawn toward her, though every part of him screamed to stay in the bed. The air grew thick, heavy with something sweet and ancient. It was as if time slowed, the world narrowing to just the two of them.
She took a step closer, the floor beneath her unchanged. Ethan could almost hear the soft rustle of her dress. His throat went dry. "I've been looking for you," he wanted to say, but no words came. Fear and longing warred inside him; he realized this might be his chance to reach her.
Then—in an instant—she was gone. The room returned to normal. Ethan's breath came in ragged gasps. His body trembled under the blankets. Sweat beaded on his brow. Had it been real? Or the last flicker of a dream, some cruel trick of sleep?
He lay back on the pillow, trembling. His heart thudded painfully. Outside, the wind died away, leaving only the quiet of midnight. Ethan closed his eyes, the image of that figure burning behind his lids. As sleep finally claimed him, one word echoed in his mind:
"Reverie…"