The sound of rain came first.
Then the scent of wet stone.
Then the weight.
Aeon opened his eyes.
He stood in a narrow street, the cobblestones glossy with rainwater, their edges oddly warped, as if memory had softened their definition. Paris—but not quite. The buildings leaned too far, their windows pulsing faintly with dreamlight. Some doors were missing. Others repeated. A black cat crossed the street twice.
Above him, the sky hung like soaked cloth, dim and sagging, and the clouds never moved. The rain was thin and constant—gentle as a breath, steady as a metronome.
A strange peace wrapped the street, but Aeon felt no comfort.
Only tension.
This world doesn't breathe like the others.
He walked slowly, his boots clicking on stone. The dream resisted him—not actively, but subtly. Every few steps felt like moving against a current. Time was thick here. Gravity had its moods.
A man passed by, walking backward, a newspaper in hand that displayed blank pages. He didn't look at Aeon. None of the passersby did. They were dressed in suits from another era, faces blurring when stared at too long.
On one wall, a poster for a film Aeon didn't recognize peeled upward in reverse.
He turned the corner—and the café was there.
Tiny. Intimate. Tables for two. Its awning flapped slowly despite the still air. A single white porcelain cup steamed atop a table. Beside it: a spinning top.
It turned.
Not wobbled.
Not slowed.
Just turned.
Aeon approached and sat down. He didn't reach for the top. He didn't need to.
The atmosphere whispered what the mind already knew.
This is not real. But it feels real.
That was the danger.
He heard it then—soft, carried on the rain like a forgotten lullaby.
Four notes.
Slowing.
Repeating.
They didn't come from a speaker. They came from beneath the dream, as if some great machinery was humming behind the illusion.
And across the street, she stood.
On a second-story balcony, hands resting on the railing. Black dress. Pale face. Dark hair pinned into a careful knot. She looked down, eyes unreadable.
She mouthed something.
A name?
A warning?
Aeon couldn't hear it. But he felt it.
Loss. Displacement. A guilt not his own.
Then she turned and disappeared inside.
The café blinked out.
Now he stood in a library—colossal and spiraling, with infinite rows of books climbing into a ceiling lost to darkness. The smell of parchment and woodsmoke filled the air. A child ran past, barefoot and laughing, paper crane trailing behind him like a kite.
Aeon turned and saw him vanish into nothing.
The books whispered as he passed.
Names.
Dates.
Regrets.
He reached for one. The spine read Her Silence / My Undoing. He opened it—pages blank.
A footstep echoed.
Not imagined.
Real.
From across the marble floor emerged a man—mid-40s, sharp-featured, eyes haunted by thought. He wore a long coat, hands in his pockets. He moved like someone used to caution.
Dominick Cobb.
He stopped a few paces away, sizing Aeon up.
"You're not one of mine," he said.
"No," Aeon replied calmly. "And you're not surprised."
Cobb's brow furrowed. "No. Because something's wrong."
The library trembled slightly. One of the books on a high shelf screamed as it fell, but when it hit the floor, it turned into a splash.
Aeon looked down. Water pooled beneath his feet. The marble floor was becoming a mirror.
"Is this your dream?" Aeon asked.
Cobb hesitated. "Not anymore. I've been stuck here too long to tell."
They began to walk through the aisles, the world adjusting with each step.
"Who sent you?" Cobb asked.
"No one," Aeon replied. "I go where the balance fractures."
Cobb stopped. "Balance?"
Aeon met his eyes. "This world isn't cracking because of your guilt. It's something older. Deeper."
Cobb's jaw tightened. "You saw her?"
Aeon nodded once. "On the balcony."
"She always starts there," Cobb said, quietly. "She watches. Then she whispers. Then the dream bends. The others… don't see her. Not the way I do."
"Because she isn't fully Mal," Aeon said.
Cobb's eyes darkened. "Don't say that."
"She's more than grief," Aeon said. "There's something using her image. Feeding from what you won't release."
A long silence passed.
"She told me to stay," Cobb said. "That the world outside wasn't real. That I had no place left."
"And you believed her," Aeon said softly.
"I wanted to," Cobb admitted.
The library flickered. The books froze. The air pressed inward.
And suddenly they stood on a rooftop — rain falling upward. The Eiffel Tower bent at a 45° angle in the sky, upside down.
Below them, the woman stood in the street.
Same dress.
Same stillness.
But now they could see her eyes.
And they weren't human.
There was something behind them. Watching through her.
"She's not gone," Cobb whispered.
"No," Aeon said. "But she's not whole, either."
He stepped forward.
The woman lifted her gaze.
And smiled.
It wasn't Mal's smile.
Aeon turned to Cobb.
"She's the bait. You're the anchor. But this thing… it's trying to build something using your sorrow."
Cobb's voice cracked. "How do I stop it?"
Aeon stepped back from the edge. "By accepting that it's not her."
"And if I can't?"
Aeon looked at him — and for a moment, saw himself in another world, kneeling before a shadow he'd once loved.
"Then you'll never wake up."