The fire always starts the same way — a soft crackle, then a scream.
Maya runs barefoot through smoke and shadows, her chest burning with the smell of wood and betrayal. A man's voice calls her name — "Mariel!" — urgent, breaking. She tries to reach him, but her hands slip against the door, her lungs filling with heat instead of air. Then, before the darkness swallows her whole, she sees his face through the flames — familiar, desperate, and heartbreakingly beautiful.
That's always when she wakes up.
Maya shot upright in bed, sweat running down her neck. The room was dark except for the faint orange glow of streetlights through her window blinds. Her heart thudded so hard she could feel it in her throat. She pressed a hand to her chest, the same spot that always ached after the dream — like a phantom wound that refused to heal.
She'd had the dream every night for the past six months. Same fire. Same man. Same name that didn't belong to her. Mariel.
It was past three in the morning, but she knew she wouldn't fall asleep again. Pulling her blanket around her shoulders, she got up and crossed to her desk. The open sketchbook lay waiting, filled with scribbles she couldn't explain — drawings of a house she'd never seen, a locket she didn't own, and a man whose face came to her more clearly than her own reflection.
She stared at the latest sketch. Those eyes. Deep-set, intense, and full of something that felt like memory.
"Who are you?" she whispered, tracing the lines with her fingertip.
Her phone buzzed. A message from her best friend, Nana.
> "You up again? Can't sleep?"
"Yeah," Maya typed back. "Same dream."
"Girl, you need a therapist, not caffeine."
Maya smiled faintly. She'd tried that already — therapy, journaling, meditation, even dream interpretation. Nothing worked. The dreams didn't feel like symbols or stress. They felt like memories.
The next morning, sunlight washed over the city, soft and gold. Maya tied her curls into a bun and sipped her coffee, watching the world outside her window — people heading to work, street vendors setting up, trotro horns blaring. Normal life.
Except she couldn't shake the ghost of that dream.
She owned a small interior design studio — Studio Ember — an ironic name now that fire haunted her nights. She spent her mornings sketching layouts for clients, afternoons meeting with suppliers, and evenings pretending she was fine.
But that Thursday, something shifted.
She'd been invited to an art exhibition at the Accra Art Centre — a client event she couldn't skip. Dressed in a cream jumpsuit and gold earrings, she told herself she'd network, smile, and maybe forget her insomnia for one evening.
The gallery buzzed with chatter and soft jazz. Paintings lined the walls — colors bursting like emotions. Maya was halfway through a glass of wine when her body froze.
Across the room, a man stood by a portrait, his gaze calm but magnetic. He wasn't striking in the loud way — but in the quiet, steady way that made the world fade around him. When his eyes lifted and met hers, time stilled.
Her breath caught.
He frowned, just slightly, like he'd seen her before.
And maybe he had.
Because even though she didn't know his name, Maya felt the same jolt she'd felt in her dreams — that electric familiarity that whispered, it's you.
The man walked toward her slowly, his expression unreadable. "I'm sorry," he said, voice low and deliberate. "You looked like someone I used to know."
She laughed nervously. "You, too."
He smiled — a small, hesitant curve that felt like an echo of something ancient. "Alex," he said, offering his hand.
"Maya."
When their palms touched, a strange chill rippled up her arm. The room around her flickered for a heartbeat — and for a split second, she saw fire reflected in his eyes.
"Maya?" someone called behind her, breaking the spell.
She turned — a client waving her over. When she looked back, Alex was gone.
---
That night, Maya couldn't stop replaying his face in her mind. Those eyes. That calm voice. That impossible sense of recognition.
In bed, her sketchbook lay open again. This time, she drew without thinking — the lines moving like muscle memory. When she finished, her stomach dropped.
She'd drawn the same man from her dreams.
And it wasn't imagination. It was him.