The dream was dark, heavy, and too real to ignore.
The air smelled like burning roses, the scent wrapping around Rhea's throat, making it hard to breathe.
Her boots sank into ash as she walked forward, her eyes searching the ruined world around her.
Above her, the sky was purple and bruised, like a wound. Sparks floated in the air, flickering like dying stars.
She didn't know how she got there.
She only knew one thing:
She had to find him. Before time ran out.
A cold voice whispered inside her head:
"Find him before the clock strikes."
Her heart raced. "V?" she called out, but her voice disappeared into the wind.
No answer.
Then the world shifted.
Through the smoke, a huge, broken palace appeared. Its towers were cracked, black shadows leaking from the cracks like blood.
Rhea clenched her fists, her nails cutting into her palms.
This dream was different.
It wasn't just a dream. It felt like a warning.
And then she saw him.
A tall figure stood far away, his back to her.
A torn coat hung from his shoulders.
She knew that shape. It was him.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She ran.
But the ground was unstable. Ash rose around her like ghostly hands, trying to hold her back.
"Wait!" she shouted.
The figure stopped—but never turned around.
When she got close enough to reach out, he vanished.
All that was left was a single black feather, falling slowly through the air.
Rhea picked it up.
The moment her fingers touched it, the feather melted into ink, staining her skin.
Then she heard a whisper, soft and cold:
"You're not asking the right questions."
She spun around—nobody was there.
Only the broken palace.
Only the smoke.
And far away, a clock tower stood still, its hands frozen at midnight.
Rhea didn't know how she knew this, but deep inside she felt it:
When that clock starts moving again, something will break.
Something she can't fix.
She woke up suddenly, gasping for air.
Her sheets were twisted around her legs. Her heart pounded hard in her chest.
But the worst part?
She could still smell smoke.
Rhea looked at the clock beside her bed.
3:17 AM.
Rain tapped against the window. The lights of Paris blurred in the wet glass.
Her hands shook as she grabbed her journal.
Dream 18:
Palace burning.
V was there, but he wouldn't look at me.
A black feather. A voice—
Her pen stopped.
What are the right questions?
What am I not seeing?
She had spent so long chasing him in the dream.
But what if chasing him wasn't the answer anymore?
A soft knock at the door made her jump.
"Rhea?" It was Sia, her roommate. "Are you okay? I heard you talking in your sleep again."
Rhea closed her journal quickly.
"Yeah. Just… a weird dream. Go back to sleep."
But Sia came in anyway. Her curly hair was messy, her face full of worry.
"You've been having these dreams a lot lately," she whispered.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Feels like I have," Rhea said softly.
Then she asked, her voice shaking:
"Do you ever feel like dreams are more than just dreams?"
Sia smiled kindly. "Like visions? Or past life stuff?"
She laughed a little. "Or maybe you're just watching too many creepy K-dramas again."
Rhea tried to smile back, but deep down she felt cold.
If only it were that simple.
The next day, Rhea couldn't stop thinking about the dream.
It wasn't just in her sleep anymore.
It was following her.
Last week, a street musician played the same melody V used to hum in Dream 12.
Yesterday, she found a black feather on the metro seat beside her.
Coincidence?
Or something more?
That evening, she sat alone in a small café near the Seine.
Her textbook was open, but she wasn't reading.
She kept hearing the voice from the dream:
"Ask the right questions."
But what did that mean?
Her eyes drifted to the window.
That's when she saw him.
A man stood across the street, under a lamppost.
His hood covered his face, but his posture—the way he stood—it was exactly like the dream.
Her heart nearly stopped.
No. It can't be.
She stood up fast, her chair scraping loudly across the floor.
By the time she reached the street, he was gone.
She turned in circles, looking for him. Her chest tightened.
Then she saw it.
Another black feather, lying near the curb.
She picked it up, half-expecting it to disappear like in the dream.
But this time, it stayed in her hand.
Suddenly, a hand touched her shoulder.
She spun around, her heart pounding hard.
A stranger stood there.
Young. Sharp eyes. Tired face.
He held out a small piece of paper.
"You dropped this," he whispered.
Her hands shook as she took it.
On the paper were just two words:
Ask me.
Her eyes shot up—but the man was already walking away.
"Wait!" she called, her voice breaking—just like in the dream.
He didn't stop.
She unfolded the paper more.
There was an address written below.
A place she didn't recognize.
Then, the feather in her other hand grew warm.
She gasped and dropped it.
The moment it hit the ground, black ink spread out into words:
"Time is running out."
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A news notification flashed on the screen:
"V RETURNS TO PARIS FOR FIRST CONCERT IN YEARS."
Her stomach twisted.
The dreams. The feathers. The stranger. The message.
It was all connected.
And now, the line between dream and reality was breaking.
If she didn't find the right questions soon…
She might lose him forever.
To Be Continue...