The lady in white

Chapter 7 : The Bleeding Dream

The night was heavier than usual, the silence stretched too thin. I closed my books early, my head aching with a strange weight. Lying down, I tried to clear my thoughts, but unease lingered, pressing at the edges of my mind. Sleep pulled me under, and with it, a dream I could not escape. The village was silent, abandoned. Broken walls crumbled into the earth, and a ring of houses stood lifeless. I walked among them, my steps echoing against the emptiness. In the center lay a doll, carved from wood, pierced with nails, its body charred and twisted. Then he appeared—my father. His hands were cold, firm, pressing a cloth over my face. I thrashed, desperate for breath, but the air grew thinner, my lungs screaming. Darkness swirled. I woke with a start, drenched in sweat, my heart racing. The dream clung to me like smoke, too vivid to dismiss. The morning light did little to shake the weight of the dream. Every sound—the creak of the floorboards, the whisper of the wind— felt too sharp, as though the dream had bled into reality. In the kitchen, I froze. On the wooden table was a damp circle of earth. Beside it, a scrap of cloth—gray, torn, smelling faintly of smoke. The same cloth from my dream. I touched it with trembling hands. It was real. Then, movement at the window. A flash of white. The Lady. Her gown swept past the glass, vanishing before I could blink. I rushed outside, but the yard was empty, silence hanging heavy in the air. The message was clear: the dream had been a warning. And now, danger was awake in my world.