Michael had not dreamed in years.
Not the kind that lingered.
Not the kind that clawed its way into his chest and stayed there long after his eyes opened.
Sleep, for him, had always been clinical—necessary, measured, controlled. He closed his eyes, his body rested, and his mind shut down. No chaos. No wandering thoughts. No fear.
Until that night.
It began without warning.
He was standing in a hospital corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the air sharp with antiseptic. The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, doors lining the walls—each one labeled, each one closed.
He knew this place.
Too well.
His hands were trembling, though he didn’t know why at first. He looked down and realized they were empty.
No charts.
No gloves.
No control.
“Marnie?” he called ou
