The dream was not a dream.
Rose jolted upright in bed, chest heaving, skin damp with sweat that steamed against the cool night air drifting through her half-open window. Her sheets tangled around her legs like vines, the remnants of sleep still clinging to her with sticky fingers. But sleep had not been what wrapped her mind—it had been something older. Something… watching.
She pushed a hand into her hair, trying to slow her breath. Her fingers trembled. Not from fear. From restraint. The same way a match trembles before it strikes. Her skin pulsed with heat beneath the surface, a heartbeat not her own syncing with her own.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered, but even as she said it, she knew. It wasn’t just wrong. It was changing.
She stood, feet bare on the wooden floor, and moved to
