Elias's nights had always been predictable, cold sheets, restless turning, and the low hum of distant city lights beyond the windows of his towering estate. He often worked late, drifting off only when his body demanded rest. Dreams rarely visited him. And when they did, they came like shadows, brief, cold, and forgettable.
But tonight was different.
It started with silence.
Then, suddenly…Flames.
Fire roared through his dream like a storm, swallowing walls, floors, and ceilings. It licked up the edges of his vision, painting the world in red and gold. Smoke choked him. He coughed, turned, searching for escape, and that's when he heard it.
A scream.
A woman's scream. Raw. Broken. Desperate.
It wasn't just any scream. It was Amara's.
He hadn't heard that voice in ten years, not since the day his father stood over her charred body and declared her a traitor. Not since the fire that took the company's data vault, and the woman Elias once planned to marry.
In the dream, her voice clawed at him, dragging guilt from places he'd buried deep.
"Elias!"
He jolted awake.
Gasping, slick with sweat. The sheets twisted around his legs like shackles. His heart slammed against his ribs.
For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling. The chandelier above him didn't move. No fire. No scream. Just the rhythmic tick of the antique clock on the far wall and the pale light of dawn creeping through the curtains.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and exhaled slowly.
"Just stress," he muttered. "Nothing more."
He swung his legs out of bed. His room was immaculate, cold marble floors, dark wood walls, and no warmth. Just like the rest of the mansion. Yet the dream clung to him, crawling up his spine.
Downstairs, the house was still. The twins were likely still asleep, and the staff hadn't yet begun their quiet rustle of duties.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message.
Valerie (Personal Assistant): "Some oddities in the system this morning. Minor glitches, but persistent. I've got IT looking into it. Will keep you posted."
He frowned.
Glitches?
Blackthorne Corp's systems didn't glitch. Not with the money he poured into cybersecurity and tech maintenance. Everything was supposed to be perfect. Seamless.
He tapped back a short reply: "Keep me updated. I want full diagnostics."
His feet carried him to the bathroom in silence. He stared at himself in the mirror. Jaw tight. Hair tousled. The faintest tremble in his hands.
"You're fine," he whispered. "You're fine."
He splashed water on his face, cold enough to sting.
But as the droplets dripped from his chin, he saw it again, in the glass, just for a flash.
Flames. Amara's face.
Then gone.
He shook his head and grabbed a towel.
By the time he made it downstairs, the twins were at the breakfast table. Ethan was reading a history book. Jose was pushing scrambled eggs around his plate.
Neither looked up when he entered.
"Morning," he said, voice rough.
Jose mumbled, "Morning."
Ethan didn't reply.
Elias stared at them. Ten years old and already so different. Jose was talkative, curious, constantly asking questions about things Elias couldn't always answer. Ethan was quiet, observant, almost too mature for his age. And every time Elias looked at Ethan, he saw Amara.
The curve of his mouth. The shape of his eyes.
He cleared his throat. "I'll be at the office early today. Big meetings."
Ethan finally looked up from his cereal. "We know."
Elias blinked, caught off guard.
Jose added quietly, "Lydia said Valerie already told her you'll be home late. Again."
The words stung more than he wanted to admit. He hadn't told them himself. He rarely did. Lydia handled the house, their routines, their expectations. But the weight of their quiet disappointment settled on his chest like wet wool, heavy, suffocating, and impossible to shrug off.
"Maybe... maybe I'll be home earlier tonight."
Neither child responded.
He turned to leave. But Ethan's voice stopped him.
"Dad?"
Elias paused, hand on the doorframe. "Yes?"
Ethan looked up. "Do you dream?"
That question threw him.
"Why do you ask?"
Ethan shrugged. "You were shouting in your sleep. I heard you."
Elias tightened his jaw. "Just a nightmare. Nothing important."
"Eat your breakfast," he said quickly, and walked away.
Later that day, at the Blackthorne Corp headquarters, everything felt off. The air had a weight to it. The screens flickered slightly. Valerie stood by his desk with a tablet.
"Sir, the anomalies are spreading," she said. "Files disappearing and reappearing. Systems re-routing themselves. It's subtle, but our coders are concerned."
Elias didn't look up from his desk. "Hackers?"
"No signs. Firewall untouched. It's like the system is… confused."
He rubbed his temples.
"I don't have time for ghosts in the machine, Valerie. Get a full sweep. Upgrade every firewall."
"Already in motion. But sir... you might want to see this."
She handed him the tablet. On the screen was a file from ten years ago, one that should've been lost in the fire that destroyed the data vault.
Yet here it was. A photo of Amara.
Smiling. Wearing one of his shirts. Sitting at the edge of his office desk.
It wasn't supposed to exist.
He stared at it for a long time.
"Where did you get this?"
Valerie shook her head. "I didn't. It just appeared."
He placed the tablet down, slowly.
"Get rid of it."
"Are you sure?" "Yes. Now."
That night, the dream returned.
But it was worse.
He stood in a burning room. The flames were higher. The walls cracked. Smoke filled his lungs.
Amara was there again. Screaming. But this time, she wasn't just screaming.
She was calling his name. "Elias! Elias, why?!"
He ran to her.
"I didn't know! I didn't know what they did to you!"
But she didn't stop.
She turned, her eyes black with sorrow. Her body engulfed in fire. And then she walked out of the flames.
Toward him.
Her skin blistered, her hair scorched, but her face clear, angry, weeping.
"You let them kill me."
He stumbled backward, tripping over a broken chair.
She reached for him. He screamed.
And woke up on the floor beside his bed.
Sweating. Gasping. Heart racing.
The clock read 3:03 a.m.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the wall.
It wasn't just a dream. Something was coming.
Something, or someone, he thought he had buried ten years ago.