The house breathed in the stillness of deep night. Only the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and the distant argument between wind and dog disturbed the peace. Outside, stars hung like scattered diamonds against velvet, oblivious to the turmoil stirring within.
In the small upstairs bedroom, where childhood still clung to the walls in faded fairy posters and phosphorescent constellations, Elia thrashed against her sheets like a creature caught in a trap. Sweat beaded on her brow, her nightshirt clinging to her skin. Her breathing came in shallow, desperate gasps.
Behind her closed lids, the world was already burning.
The dream had hurled Elia into chaos without warning.
She materialized in the center of a cosmic battlefield, suspended above a dying Earth. The ground beneath her feet was a mosaic of crystallized screams—reality itself fracturing under the weight of something that should not exist.
