“‘See you,’ huh.”

  Around noon, a blade of light slipped through a gap in the curtains.

  It fell across his eyelids, and Crys finally woke.

  He let out a long breath and spoke the words the girl had left behind.

  As if she were implying they’d meet again.

  The thought surfaced with him—

  and he gave a small, self-mocking snort.

  He curled his hand into a loose fist. Not in that other place—

  but here, in his room.

  As if to make sure.

  The dullness of sleep spread back into his fingertips.

  Relief filled him—

  like he’d made it back to the real world.

  And yet… something felt off. The fabric against his skin wasn’t what it had been.

  Slowly, he lifted his left arm, heavy with sleep.

  …He was in his loungewear.

  In that place, he’d been wearing yesterday’s hoodie.

  He exhaled again, a little sharper.

  He was tired of being dragged around by dreams.

  But he couldn’t quite swallow it as “just a dream,” either.

  It didn’t feel like the old one—the strange dream where he only kept falling.

  Something was different.

  He opened his eyes, half-lidded. The sunlight was brighter than he’d expected.

  Even when he frowned and rolled over, his thoughts wouldn’t stop.

  The most unsettling part was the girl.

  Sometimes, a dream continues.

  Sometimes you see a similar scene again.

  Sure.

  But she hadn’t felt like a leftover from a dream.

  She’d been there—

  like she existed.

  —How was he supposed to explain that?

  Taking dreams seriously was stupid.

  That was what he’d told himself for four years.

  He hadn’t even bothered to look any of it up.

  But this time, he couldn’t file it away.

  Crys reached for his phone.

  He thought for a moment, then typed the first words that came to mind into the search bar.

  [real dream]

  Because he hadn’t narrowed anything down, the results came up with useless suggestions and headlines that made him want to frown harder.

  [Dream meaning: 25 signs of realistic dreams]

  [I keep having dreams that feel too real. Anyone else?]

  [Spiritual meaning of realistic dreams: symbols and messages]

  Ugh.

  He grimaced.

  He tried adding one or two more keywords, but nothing really changed.

  Annoyed, he typed and deleted, again and again—

  and without thinking, he tapped the side of his phone with his nail, click-click-click.

  Then he stopped.

  What was he even trying to find out?

  If he didn’t know that, the internet wasn’t going to hand him an answer.

  Maybe he needed to classify it first.

  That thought shifted something in him.

  He accessed the database of the neighborhood library, and tried searching with just one keyword.

  [Dream]

  Twenty thousand hits. Even when he filtered, it wouldn’t drop below a hundred.

  This was going to take time.

  Crys clicked his tongue softly.

  Still—

  he didn’t hate it.

  Sifting through piles of information, turning pages until you finally reached what you needed.

  He sat up in one motion, and pulled the curtains open all the way. Then he slipped on the game-collab hoodie he only wore on weekends.

  The problem was getting to the front door.

  Right after Amelia died, Cillian had barely left his room. But since the move, maybe he’d been trying to be a good father—

  because on weekends, he stayed in the living room from late morning until night, waiting for a chance to talk.

  As if that could make up for anything.

  When Crys was at his weakest—when he’d needed him most—

  Cillian hadn’t been there.

  So why should he bother entertaining an apology that came years too late?

  Crys went down the stairs as quietly as he could.

  He skipped the third and seventh steps—the ones that had started creaking lately.

  Then he put his foot on the eleventh—

  —Creeeak.

  A loud groan tore through the quiet hall.

  He clicked his tongue, jumped down the remaining steps in one go, and tried to bolt outside—

  Too late.

  “Crys.”

  Like he’d been waiting, Cillian came hurrying out of the living room—awkward, half-running.

  “Going out? I’ll make dinner and wait, so could you just tell me what time you’ll be back? You like roast chicken and baked potatoes, don’t you?”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Behind his thin round glasses, his eyes darted around nervously.

  His hands fidgeted together.

  He still talked too fast, like he was afraid the words would run out.

  That timid, pathetic look—like he was the one being threatened—

  made Crys irrationally furious.

  Crys glared at him.

  Then, without a word, he shut the front door.

  Nigella Street was wet and shining.

  Big leaves and snapped branches lay scattered everywhere, and neighbors were cleaning up while chatting in small clusters.

  When had it even rained?

  He looked up.

  The sky was a clear, washed blue, the sun glaring bright.

  As if resetting himself, Crys drew a deep breath.

  The warmed air carried the smell of soil, turned over by rain.

  Quiet. Ordinary.

  For some reason, it put him in a better mood.

  He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and started walking toward the library, two blocks away.

  Elvie Ivy Library was still new, but already the heart of the neighborhood. Quiet light fell through the glass atrium.

  The collection was wide—general books beside academic journals that looked half-asleep, as if they belonged in a university library.

  Crys typed a few keywords into the search terminal, then compared the printout as he traced the shelves.

  “154.5… 154.6… here.”

  He pulled one book out. Then the one beside it, and the one beside that. Anything that caught his eye, he flipped through—keeping what seemed usable, stacking it in his arms.

  Dreams and the Reflection of Everyday Experience.

  Cultural Differences in Dream Themes and Interpretation.

  Lucid Dreaming and Its Significance for Self-Analysis…

  Not bad.

  His arms were starting to go numb from the weight. Time to sit down and actually read—

  He was just heading toward the reading area when a shrill voice rose from beneath the escalator.

  Shrieking with laughter, a cluster of kids came charging up.

  Too young to know what this kind of quiet was for.

  Crys frowned.

  Then ignored it.

  Not his problem.

  He scanned for an open seat.

  —And then.

  Heavy footsteps.

  Thud. Thud.

  A voice, loud enough to rival the kids, boomed after them.

  “Kaylee, Emlyn, Zayden! Wait! If you mess around in the library, I’ll get in trouble too! You’re not allowed to run, and you’re not allowed to be loud. Hey, are you listening? Come back!”

  Larry.

  —Worst.

  Before Larry could spot him, Crys bolted deeper between the shelves.

  He almost slammed into someone on the way. No time to apologize.

  He didn’t want to see Larry even on a weekend. If Larry caught him now, he’d probably scold him too—Don’t make noise.

  He wasn’t dealing with that.

  Not here.

  Crys slipped behind a bookcase and pressed himself into the shadow. Holding his breath, he listened.

  Larry’s voice was pulled upward, swallowed by the escalator—

  higher, higher, fading.

  Even then, Crys stayed there,

  still as a book.

  No matter how long he waited, Larry didn’t come back down. Maybe he’d taken the elevator. Maybe he was getting chewed out somewhere.

  Either way—Larry wouldn’t be coming back.

  Nothing on this floor he could read.

  Crys looked around again, carefully.

  The library had returned to its usual quiet.

  No one seemed to care that there’d just been a commotion.

  Only then did he finally exhale and go back to looking for a seat.

  Every single seat was taken.

  He found a four-person table and started to sit—

  That was when he noticed

  the one book—the one with the cover he’d liked most—was missing.

  The one he’d wanted to read first.

  Crys set the rest of the stack down on the table, then went back to where he’d panicked and run.

  People were searching for books, reaching up toward the top shelves. Only Crys’s eyes tracked the floor.

  But—

  nothing.

  Not where he’d jumped.

  Not anywhere on the floor.

  A disappointed breath slipped out.

  A librarian must’ve picked it up. Or someone kind returned it.

  Maybe it would show up on the shelf again later.

  He turned away, ready to start with the other books—

  And in that instant,

  he almost collided with someone.

  “Sorry.”

  “No—my bad.”

  The voice that dropped down from above was slow, almost lazy—

  like they hadn’t really cared about the collision at all.

  Crys looked up without meaning to. Someone tall filled his view.

  —Red hair.

  A burning shade, emerald-green eyes. His ears were crowded with piercings.

  Even Crys—who wasn’t exactly blessed with a solid build—could tell he was thin.

  Something about his face was sharp, nervous—like it didn’t know how to rest.

  Crys stopped without meaning to.

  The young man tilted his head slightly.

  That small motion snapped Crys back to himself, and he looked away.

  Awkwardly, he tried to hurry past—

  and then.

  A book slid into his path, blocking him.

  “Here.”

  Scarlet cover, black ornamentation.

  The one he’d been looking for.

  Crys glanced between the book and the young man, then took it carefully.

  “Th… thank you.”

  The young man’s gaze had already drifted away.

  “What you want to know,” he said,

  “isn’t in books.”

  That was all he said.

  He turned and walked off toward another shelf.

  Crys stayed where he was, watching that red hair sway like flame as it disappeared.

  —What does that mean?

  He stared down at the scarlet book in his hands, tilting his head.

  Then he returned to his seat, and started reading.

  It was interesting, sure—

  but the publication date was old, and the writing was heavy with terms he couldn’t get through.

  The next one he opened looked academic by title, but the contents read like some kind of dream reading.

  He shut it right away.

  A book on imaginary friends caught his eye too.

  But that was the kind of book

  Crys didn’t want to admit had anything to do with him.

  —Back when he believed in something as stupid as magic.

  He’d convinced himself he had an unseen friend, talked to empty air.

  It was ridiculous. Even thinking about it made him want to look away.

  But now, being alone was comfortable.

  He didn’t need anyone.

  So that girl in the dream wasn’t that.

  He kept searching for something else—anything.

  Not just dream books. He grabbed whatever he could find on neuroscience, on psychoanalysis.

  He stood up, searched, read, sat back down.

  Over and over.

  Before long, it was all the same story,

  and he started getting bored.

  He’d really thought that if he read this much, he’d find at least one case like his.

  But there was nothing.

  And the more he widened the net, the less he even knew what he was trying to learn.

  When turning pages without purpose started to feel like work, the red-haired guy’s words came back to him.

  “What you want to know isn’t in books.”

  At the time, he hadn’t understood what it meant.

  But now—

  it sounded like something you’d say

  if you already knew what someone was looking for.

  —How did he know?

  He went back over the moment.

  And one thought landed.

  Maybe he’d seen Crys hunting through the shelves.

  Maybe that was enough to guess what he was researching.

  Maybe he’d read the same book once.

  Was that why he’d handed it over?

  A hint?

  …God, I blew it.

  Crys bit down hard on the clicker of his pen.

  If he’d asked, maybe he would’ve told him what wasn’t written anywhere.

  He’d gone out of his way to speak to him at all.

  Maybe he dealt with dreams. Like Nash—only sharper.

  A counselor. A psychiatrist. Something like that.

  Crys rested his cheek in his hand, thinking.

  He flipped through the pages at random,

  letting his eyes drift over the words.

  And, strangely—

  the voices around him began to fade.

  At first, he didn’t notice.

  But the presence of the people beside him, across from him, grew thin.

  Like a heat haze, their outlines wavered—then turned transparent.

  The table. The books on it.

  They, too, began slipping out of his sight.

  “Wait…”

  He stood up without meaning to.

  The tables around him.

  The people using them.

  The figures walking across the floor.

  The shelves.

  The escalator—

  even the chair he’d just been sitting in—

  everything vanished, one after another.

  The warm brown of the wood.

  The colors of the spines.

  The shadows on the floor.

  All of it drained away, until only white remained.

  A space of endless light.

  Crys stared at nothing.

  And then—

  a glow appeared, a table-length away.

  White, silver, and pearl—as if the colors were mixed together.

  It seeped into the air, gathering into a shape, forming the outline of a person.

  Crys held his breath.

  Translucent blond hair.

  A white dress.

  —The girl from his dream.

  She was there.

  Her petal-pink lips curled into a smile.

  “Hey—!”

  The moment his voice slipped out,

  the girl—still smiling—swayed, and disappeared.

  Like mist clearing all at once, the white space collapsed.

  And when he realized it, he was back in the usual library.

  Someone sat in front of him, reading.

  A pen scratched softly across paper.

  People crossed the floor.

  Crys hadn’t even blinked.

  He couldn’t believe how quickly what he was seeing had changed.

  All he could do was stare around him.

  What was that…?

  Everything—people, objects—had disappeared.

  The world had turned white.

  And she had been there.

  Or had it been some girl on the floor, someone who just looked like her, and he’d mistaken it?

  No.

  That wasn’t it.

  She had looked at him.

  She had smiled.

  But she was the girl from his dream.

  If he’d seen her,

  did that mean he’d dozed off?

  No.

  That couldn’t be right.

  He hadn’t fallen asleep.

  He’d been right here the whole time,

  reading—

  Crys realized—too late—that he’d been standing the whole time.

  Reality pulled him back in one hard tug, and he let out a small breath.

  His shoulders sagged as he sat back down.

  —Of course.

  It was a dream.

  There was no way she’d show up in broad daylight.

  He told himself he’d only been overthinking it.

  A hallucination, maybe.

  He tried to settle himself with that thought—

  and then, belatedly, he felt it.

  Eyes on him.

  Crys lifted his face, and froze.

  The people at his table.

  The people walking past.

  They were looking.

  Not directly—more like stealing glances.

  He’d stood up all of a sudden, staring at a single point.

  He’d spoken—to no one.

  And then he’d just stood there, silent.

  That was what he’d done.

  An old woman who’d been reading the newspaper peered at him through a magnifying glass, her enlarged eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  Heat rushed into his face all at once.

  Crys hated being watched.

  By the time his ears had turned red too,

  he grabbed the stack of books and his bag without thinking and left the table like he was running.

  As if to shake it off, he shoved the books back onto the shelves, rough.

  One after another.

  —This is all because of that dream last night.

  A dream would’ve been bad enough. But if he’d started seeing things in daylight, he needed to do something—fast.

  And still,

  nothing.

  Not the books.

  Not the internet.

  Nothing that looked useful.

  If he saw that girl again, was he supposed to tell her,

  Don’t show up in my dreams anymore?

  Crys stopped mid-shelving and made a face.

  …Why am I assuming there’s going to be a next time?

  When she said “See you,” it wasn’t a promise. It was just what people said. He knew that.

  Or maybe—

  maybe what just happened was the “see you,” and now it was finally over.

  Either way, showing up like that was a pain.

  When he finished putting everything away,

  Crys checked his smartwatch as he headed for the entrance.

  —A little past two.

  His poetry assignment still wasn’t done.

  But he couldn’t stay in the library any longer.

  He didn’t want to keep running into Cillian,

  so he wanted to eat dinner somewhere first—then go home.

  And he still hadn’t gotten anywhere with the dream thing.

  Should he go to the bookstore at the mall?

  Or sit in a burger place, work on the assignment, and mess around on a phone game?

  …None of it sounded right.

  A bus passed in front of him, and the thought slipped out—

  “…I’ll go see Mom.”

  The words came out on their own.

  Crys stepped out onto the street in front of the library, and started walking toward the station.