Luna's Lost Daughter

The waves crashed furiously against the rocks. Salt and foam curled around the ankles of the woman in the dream, her red hair lashing in the wind around her face, framing her piercing eyes. She stood at the edge of the shore, barefoot, bare-skinned, wrapped only in a net of pearls and rough-weaved fishing line. A silver crescent moon floated above her like a crown, soft and sharp all at once. Behind her, the sea howled. Beside her, a dark wolf paced — massive, watchful, always between her and the chaos. And in front of her, in the dream, she reached out. Not to the sea. Not to the moon. To Jane. Jane,standing on the shore watching, both so close and yet so far. The chilly sea wind clawing away at her clinic gown. "Come home," The woman mouthed, lips moving — but no sound came. Not even the crash of waves could fill that silence. Jane woke with the taste of salt on her tongue. She stared up at the ceiling, counting the same old cracks she always did, like beads on a rosary, her dull morning prayer. One above the corner, like a broken lightning bolt. One like a sideways Y. And the other — the one that reminded her of a tree, branches reaching, never quite touching the light fixture. The room was white. Always white. White sheets, white walls, white silence and the buzzing of the light panel hanging weakly from the ceiling. Her hands were already folded neatly on her chest. She didn’t remember doing that. She never remembered doing that. She turned her head slowly, looking at them. There were scratch marks on the inside of her wrist. Old ones. Some faded. Some not. The clock on the wall said 6:08 a.m. Time was cruel here. It moved slow enough to suffocate and fast enough to vanish. She had stopped keeping track of the days months ago — or was it years? ... Who cared she thought, wincing her eyes closed giving a deep sigh. Her name was Jane. At least, that’s what the records said. But that woman in the dream — that wild creature with storm in her blood and stars in her hair — she never called her Jane. The woman clearly called her something, Jane kept her eyes closed, trying to claw back at the wisps of dream escaping her mind already, the words those muted lips shaped.... what was it ? Breakfast was the same. Mushy oatmeal. One hard-boiled egg. A plastic cup of juice that didn’t taste like fruit and the paper cup of little pills that would numb the whispers and her mind along with it. Jane sat at her usual seat by the window, hands motionless, gaze fixed on the dead lawn outside. The nurse on duty — Shelly — had her phone tucked behind a book again, pretending to read. No one looked at Jane. They never did. Not since the time she screamed for twenty minutes straight and couldn’t remember why. The dreams were getting louder. Closer. She hadn’t told the staff. Not this time. Last time, they upped her dosage. The time before that, they strapped her to the bed. The time before that… she woke up with a padded helmet on, best to tell them what they wanted to hear. She poked the egg. It rolled across her tray like it was trying to escape, "Me too egg, me too". Across the room, someone was crying. Jane didn’t bother lifting her eyes, someone was always wailing or screaming. Later, in therapy, Dr. Meyers asked her about the dream. Jane didn’t speak. Dr. Meyers tapped his pen impatiently. “Still seeing the red-haired woman?” She blinked once, casting her gaze down. He made a note. Probably another diagnosis, she thought, giving a subtle eye roll or maybe just another adjustment. “You said she reaches for you,” he said carefully. “What do you think she wants?” To take me home, Elena almost said. . . atleast that's what she thought she was trying to say. Instead, she whispered, “She doesn’t think I’m crazy.” That night, she dreamed again. The woman was closer. The wind louder. The wolf’s eyes met hers — glowing like live coals. And though no words came, Jane felt a shift deep inside her. Something stirring. Something remembering. But when she woke… she said nothing. Not yet...