The world doesn't always end with thunder. Sometimes, it just goes quiet.
The vision is gone.
I'm back in my shower, or I think I am. I'm on the floor, the cold tile biting into my skin, the once hot spray now cooling, still hitting my shoulders in a thin, uneven rhythm. My lungs seize as I gasp for air, each breath too shallow, too fast. The sound of the water is deafening, drowning out my heartbeat.
I press a trembling hand to my chest, trying to steady it, but my pulse is all over the place, pounding, erratic, and wild. The air was burning my throat with every inhale.
I blink hard, but the room keeps spinning.
No. No, this isn't right. My head is splitting open, and I can't tell if it's from how hard the vision hit me or the fading echo of the Kere's voice still crawling through my mind.
The water begins to turn cold, mist fading into gray ribbons around me. I try to stand, but my legs won't listen. They shake like I've run a marathon underwater.
"Oh god…" The words come out as a rasp. "No one's home."
The realization strikes with a sudden intensity. Mom's out. Shelby's miles away. There's no one here to see me like this or to pull me out if I need help—
The thought cuts short as the world tilts. My vision tunnels; black creeps in from the edges.
I reach for the wall—for anything—but my hand finds only air.
Then the sound of rushing water fades into silence.
And everything goes dark.
I think I've fainted, but I can still feel movement. Arms, strong but gentle, sliding beneath me, lifting me effortlessly from the floor. Warmth replaces the cold tile beneath my body. I can't open my eyes, but I sense I'm being carried. The air smells different—not like steam or soap, but something softer. Familiar.
My bed.
I'm laid down on the sheets, a pillow tucked beneath my head, the blanket drawn up to my shoulders with careful precision the way my mother used to tuck me in when I was little.
A voice whispers through the haze.
"It will all be right, child."
The tone is low and melodic, neither male It is neither female nor male. The sound vibrates through me, as though my mind could feel it more than hear it. Carrying both warmth and a warning.
Before I can question who it is, the voice fades. Slipping into the dark like it was never there.
Oblivion swallows everything.
And then I'm dreaming.
The accident again. However this time, it's sharper. Clearer.
I'm standing in the middle of the road, rain hammering down in sheets, headlights cutting through the darkness. My car is twisted metal and broken glass. I can see myself—my body—sprawled across the pavement.
This time… something's different. My body lies there broken on the other side of the road, crumpled in that ditch, half-hidden by twisted metal and mud. I could feel the rain pouring down in cold, relentless sheets and making the blood shimmer as it trickles down my temple.
The headlights of my car blink weakly through the downpour, one still flickering before sputtering out. My car. My wreck.
And yet—
There are bystanders, shouting, moving, rushing… but not toward me.
They're crowding around the other car. A man is sitting on the pavement, dazed, clutching his arm. He looks confused, his voice trembling as he stammers something about how his brakes didn't work and how he couldn't stop.
Hello?!
I glance around wildly. People?!
My car is the one that got T-boned! The impact threw me clear through the passenger window, and I can still see the shattered glass scattered across the asphalt like fallen stars. My body is twisted at an angle that no one should survive, and there's blood pooling beneath my head.
Why isn't anyone coming?
"Hey!" I shout, running toward the crowd. "Over here! Someone—please!"
No one turns.
I push through them, reaching out for a woman's arm, but my hand goes straight through her. There's no contact. No resistance; just a chill. that cuts straight through my fingers.
Panic spikes through me. I grab at someone else, a man in a reflective vest, but my hand slides through his shoulder like smoke.
"What the hell…" I whisper, staring at my trembling fingers.
I look down at myself. My hands look real and whole, but when I touch my face, I can't feel the warmth of my own skin. Only the faint vibration of something that doesn't belong here.
I know this feeling. The separation. The weightlessness. I've felt it before, during my rituals, when I tried to astral project, but this is different. This isn't controlled. My spirit isn't floating by choice. It's being ripped from me.
My stomach twists, nausea rising as if gravity's lost its rules. The world around me flickers, bright, then dull, then almost transparent.
And then, like muscle memory, my eyes turn toward him.
Will.
He's running toward the wreck, slipping through the rain, falling to his knees beside my body. His face is a storm of anguish, fury, and disbelief. I can see his mouth moving, screaming my name, but the sound doesn't reach me. Only the echo of his desperation ripples through the air.
He looks different this time. No hood and a clear face. A torn white shirt plastered to his chest, streaked with blood and dirt. His pants are ripped at the knees, his hair soaked, and his expression shattered.
Was he in the car with me? How did I miss that?
He leans over me, hands shaking as he presses down on my shoulder, trying to wake me. Then he turns, and I see his back.
The fabric of his shirt was shredded, hanging in ribbons, and beneath it, angry, raw wounds, like he'd been whipped. He had these deep, jagged marks carved into his skin, bleeding through the rain.
My heart stuttered as I watched the pain and agony on his face when he got to me, not for himself but for me.
The wail of the ambulance siren cut through the storm, distant and closing in. The red lights flickered through the rain like phantom fireflies.
It's too late. I can feel it. My body is slipping away.
And then—
"Angelia?"
The voice is soft. Disembodied.
Darkness starts to bloom at the edges of my vision, spreading inward like ink dropped in water.
"Angelia…"
There it is again, closer this time, curling through the dark.
"Who…" My voice sounds strange, warped, and stretched thin.
A sharp burn ignited in the center of my stomach, small at first, and then spreading outward and searing through me like molten metal.
The pain begins to build, rising, burning, boiling, until it feels like my insides are catching fire and that fire is pulsing and racing through every nerve in my body.
I arch backward, trying to scream—
But the darkness swallows the sound.
"Angelia! Wake up!"
For a heartbeat, I swear it's Will. His panic echoes inside my skull, overlapping with a deeper, older sound that feels less like a shout and more like a command from somewhere far below.
Light explodes behind my eyes as I gasp, dragging air into my lungs like I've been drowning. My hands clutch the sheets. I twist the sheets until my knuckles ache, and sweat slicks every inch of my body, cold and clammy. I force myself upright, chest heaving.
The room spins. My head feels like it's full of smoke.
I press my palms to my knees and lower my head, willing the nausea to pass. The sheets cling to me, damp and tangled, and for a ridiculous second, all I can think is, "Thank god I do my laundry, or Mom would think I'm having night terrors again."
I look around. My room. My bed. The heater emits a faint hum. The silence followed the chaos.
Was it another vision… or just a dream?
Will's voice still echoes faintly in my mind, blurred and distant. I can't make out the words, only the emotion. Urgent. Terrified. Pleading.
I glance at the red digits glowing on the nightstand. 3:33 a.m.
Of course.
I pull the damp blanket around me, trying to slow the tremor in my hands. There's no way I'm going back to sleep. Not after that.
So I sit there in the dark, heart still racing, waiting for the first light of morning—wishing, for once, the nightmare would end.