They discharged her the next morning, no questions asked, no explanations offered. Just a cold, clinical exit
She left the hospital slowly, her legs shaky, her muscles sore in ways she didn't understand. Each step felt strange. Her body didn't feel like her own.
She carried a small pale blue bag. Inside it was the midnight blue dress—soft satin, neatly folded. She hadn't brought it, but somehow, it was hers now. It felt important. Familiar in a way she couldn't explain.
Mr. Talbot had taken care of everything. The ride home, the nurse who helped her out and even the groceries were already in her kitchen when she arrived—fresh fruit, bread, and a small note in his handwriting: Rest, Amara. You're safe now.
The fridge hummed in the quiet apartment. It felt too clean. Too calm. But it was home.
Mr. Talbot dropped by that evening. He didn't ask questions. He didn't need to. He just handed her a packet of her favorite tea and smiled.
She didn't tell him about the voice.
She'd heard it again—in the Uber, in the steam of the shower. Soft. Calm. Like a memory she couldn't place.
"Amara."
Just her name.
It stayed with her. And even though she didn't understand it, something about it felt… warm.
Not like a stranger calling out across a distance but like someone speaking from inside her chest.
Back home, the apartment felt… different. Not exactly unfamiliar, but not fully hers either. Like the walls were holding onto something she couldn't see. There was a stillness in the air, thick and quiet, like someone had been there just moments before.
And on her bed—the dress.
Midnight blue, its folds shimmered gently in the light. It hadn't been there when she left. But now it lay neatly spread out, like it had always belonged.
Amara paused at the doorway, staring. Her chest tightened, not in fear, but something closer to awe. Slowly, she stepped forward and ran her fingers over the fabric.
It was cool. Smooth like water. Familiar in a strange, distant way.
Somehow, she knew it mattered.
That night, the dreams returned—stronger than before.
She stood in a garden wrapped in mist. The trees were bare, their limbs stretching up toward a dark sky. The fog crept along the ground, curling around her legs like soft ropes.
And there he was.
Still. Quiet. His back turned.
Tall. Dressed in black. He didn't speak or move, but she felt him—like a pull in the air, like heat before a storm.
She didn't know who he was.
But deep in the marrow of her bones, in some place language hadn't touched, she knew him.
Her lips parted.
"Turn around," she whispered. The words vanished into the heavy air, soundless. He turned and the world stilled.
Violet eyes met hers—clear and vivid against the muted grey of the dream. Not warm, not cold… just endless. As if they'd watched time stretch and fold, as if they had once looked at her and remembered something she herself had lost.
He reached for her—not with hands, but with something quieter, deeper. A presence that moved through her like a whisper, brushing past skin and sense and stirring something hidden beneath her ribs. Something long buried.
She woke with a gasp, sitting upright in bed. Her breath came fast, chest tight, heart drumming hard against her bones. The darkness around her felt too still, as though the room itself was listening.
Then she saw it.
The dress. Folded neatly at the foot of her bed, just as she'd left it.
But now, it looked different.
In the hush of night, it caught the light in a way that felt… intentional. A soft shimmer, barely there. Like it remembered something, too.