The rain had stopped, but the city still wept. Water dripped from gutters, pooled in the cracks of sidewalks, and reflected the neon lights like fractured memories. Lena stood at the window of her apartment, watching the world below move on as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed.
She pressed her palm against the cold glass, feeling the barrier between her and the rest of humanity. It had been three days since the dream—the one that felt too real to be a dream, too vivid to be dismissed as her mind playing tricks. Three days since she'd seen his face.
Marcus.
The name still tasted foreign on her tongue, even though she'd whispered it a hundred times in the darkness of her room. She didn't know anyone named Marcus. She'd never met anyone by that name. And yet, when she closed her eyes, she could see him perfectly: the sharp line of his jaw, the scar above his left eyebrow, the way his eyes seemed to hold centuries of sadness.
Who was he? Why did he feel like someone she'd known her entire life?
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, pulling her from her thoughts. She didn't move to answer it. She already knew it was Dr. Reeves calling again, the third time today. The psychiatrist had been persistent since their last session, when Lena had made the mistake of mentioning the dreams.
"Recurring vivid dreams can be a sign of unprocessed trauma," Dr. Reeves had said, her voice professionally gentle. "We should explore what your subconscious is trying to tell you."
But this wasn't trauma. This was something else. Something that therapy couldn't touch.
Lena turned away from the window and walked to her desk, where her laptop sat open. The screen had gone dark, but she knew what was on it. She'd been researching for hours before exhaustion finally claimed her. Articles about shared dreams, collective consciousness, parallel universes. She'd fallen down rabbit holes of pseudoscience and metaphysics, desperate for any explanation that made sense.
Nothing did.
She touched the trackpad, and the screen illuminated, showing the last thing she'd been reading: a blog post from someone claiming to have experienced dreams of a past life. The writer described meeting people in dreams who felt familiar, places that seemed like home despite never having been there.
Lena's chest tightened. Was that what this was? Some kind of past life bleeding through?
She closed the laptop with more force than necessary. This was insane. She was a rational person—a librarian, for God's sake. She organized information, categorized facts, helped people find answers to real questions. She didn't believe in reincarnation or mystical connections.
And yet.
The memory of the dream washed over her again. She'd been in a different time, a different place. A ballroom with crystal chandeliers and women in elaborate gowns. She'd worn emerald green silk that rustled when she moved, and her hair had been longer, pinned up with pearls. Marcus had been there, across the room, and when their eyes met, the entire world had fallen away.
"I've been looking for you," he'd said when he finally reached her side. His voice had been rough, urgent. "Across lifetimes, I've been looking for you."
She'd opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Because somehow, impossibly, she'd known exactly what he meant.
Lena shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory. It was just a dream. Just neurons firing randomly while she slept. There was no Marcus. There was no ballroom. There was no connection that transcended time and space.
Except her body didn't believe that. Her body remembered the weight of his hand on her waist as they danced. Remembered the warmth of his breath against her ear. Remembered the devastating certainty that they'd done this before, in another life, in another world.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't a call—it was a text. From her friend Sarah.
"Coffee tomorrow? You've been MIA lately. Getting worried."
Lena stared at the message. When was the last time she'd seen Sarah? Two weeks? Three? Time had become slippery lately, days blending into each other as she became more and more consumed by the dreams.
Because it wasn't just one dream anymore. Every night now, she found him. Found Marcus. And every morning, she woke with a sense of loss so profound it felt like grief.
She typed back: "Tomorrow's good. Usual place?"
The response came immediately. "10am. Don't flake on me."
Lena smiled despite herself. Sarah knew her too well. She set the phone down and walked to her bedroom, exhaustion pulling at her bones. She needed to sleep, but the prospect filled her with equal parts anticipation and dread.
What would she dream tonight? Would he be there? And if he was, would she finally have the courage to ask him the questions that were driving her slowly insane?
She changed into her pajamas mechanically, brushed her teeth, turned off the lights. The routine was supposed to be soothing, but it felt hollow now. Everything felt hollow except for those hours in the dream world.
Lena slipped under the covers and closed her eyes. Her heart was already racing, her body preparing for wherever her mind would take her.
The darkness behind her eyelids began to shift and swirl. She felt the familiar pull, like being drawn underwater. The sensation of falling and floating simultaneously.
And then she was there.
But this time, it wasn't a ballroom. It was a library—not her library, but one from another era. Wooden shelves stretched toward impossibly high ceilings, filled with leather-bound books that smelled of age and secrets. Ladders on rolling tracks. Green-shaded lamps casting pools of warm light.
She stood in the center of it all, wearing a simple dress from a bygone age. And across the room, partially hidden behind a shelf, she saw him.
Marcus.
He stepped into view, and the expression on his face made her breath catch. He looked afraid. Not of her, but for her.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not yet. You're not ready."
"Ready for what?" Lena heard herself ask. Her voice sounded stronger in the dream, more certain.
He took a step closer, and she could see the conflict in his eyes. "To remember. To know the truth."
"What truth?"
Marcus looked around the library as if checking for observers, then met her gaze again. "We didn't just know each other in another life, Lena. We destroyed each other. And if you remember how—if you remember what we did—it will destroy you all over again."
The words hung in the air between them like a physical thing, heavy and terrible.
Lena wanted to speak, wanted to demand answers, but before she could, the library began to dissolve. The books, the shelves, Marcus himself—all of it started to fade like watercolors in the rain.
"Wait!" she called out, reaching for him.
His hand caught hers for just a moment. His skin was warm, solid, real.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry for what I'm about to make you remember."
And then she was falling, tumbling through darkness, and she could hear someone screaming—
Lena's eyes snapped open. She was in her bed, in her apartment, in the real world. Dawn light was beginning to seep through her curtains.
Her hand was still outstretched, reaching for something that wasn't there.
But when she looked down at her palm, her blood turned to ice.
There, on her skin, was a mark she'd never seen before. A symbol burned into her flesh, still faintly glowing.
The same symbol she'd seen tattooed on Marcus's wrist in the dream.