The sky was gray in her dream.
Not the kind of stormy gray that promised rain, but the quiet, heavy gray that made everything feel distant — like the world itself was half-asleep.
A boy stood under the withered tree.
Small. Frail. Eyes hidden beneath messy black hair. She couldn't see his face clearly — no matter how many times the dream came. No matter how close she got. It was like his features were being smudged by the wind itself, blurry and unreachable.
He never said a word. Just stood there, looking up at her. Or maybe through her.
She always felt... warm. Like she'd known him once. Like he'd been someone important.
But she could never remember why.
And then she'd wake up.
Just like now.
Her room was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt thicker than silence. The morning light leaked in through the curtains, soft and gold — yet it didn't feel like morning. Not really.
"...again," she whispered, staring at the ceiling. Her heart thudded with something that wasn't fear. It wasn't even confusion anymore. Just... that feeling you get when a name is on the tip of your tongue — and it refuses to come out.
She turned her head. A faint breeze from the open window stirred the curtain. The dream clung to her like fog on her skin. She could almost still see the boy if she closed her eyes.
"Sweetie! Breakfast!"
Her mother's voice cut through the haze. Soft, cheerful, normal.
She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and pushed away the dream. For now.
Downstairs smelled of butter and something sweet. Her mother was flipping pancakes while humming an old tune, the kind that never had a name. Her father sat at the table, sipping tea with that sleepy grin he always wore in the morning — like he hadn't fully left his dreams yet either.
"Morning," she mumbled, sliding into her seat.
"Morning, princess," her dad said, rustling her hair with a familiar touch.
"Did you sleep well?" her mother asked, placing a warm plate in front of her.
"...Yeah." A short pause. She poked her fork into the pancake. "Kind of."
They all ate in silence for a few minutes. The clink of forks and the soft shuffle of napkins filled the room. It was warm. Safe. The kind of moment you'd want to freeze and live in forever.
Too normal.
Too perfect.
Then, she asked it.
"Mom... do I really not have a brother?"
Silence.
Her father blinked, lowering his cup just slightly. Her mother's hand paused mid-reach for the syrup bottle. The moment stretched.
She didn't look up.
"You've asked that before," her mother said gently. "But no. You never had a brother."
Her father gave a soft chuckle — the kind that felt rehearsed. "Is this about those dreams again?"
"I saw him again last night," she said, her voice low. Her eyes locked on the syrup slowly running down her pancake, pooling like shadows on a plate. "Same tree. Same sky. Same feeling. He's always there."
Her mother reached across the table and squeezed her hand. Warm. Familiar. Comforting.
"Dreams can feel real, sweetheart. But that doesn't make them true."
"But... they feel like memories," she whispered. "They feel like... like I lost someone."
Her parents exchanged a look. Not fear. Not guilt. But something unreadable — like they were both trying to remember something they'd never known. Or maybe something they'd worked very hard to forget.
Her mother smiled. Not too wide. Not too forced.
"You're our only child. That's always been true."
It looked like she wasn't lying.
No — she actually wasn't.
That boy, that person. Never existed.
Or that's what it should be.
And yet, every time she closed her eyes...
That boy was waiting under the tree.
She finished her pancakes, but they tasted like nothing.
The warmth in the room, her parents' smiles — they were real. Solid. But they didn't match the feeling in her chest.
Like something was missing.
Something important.
After breakfast, she went outside for air. The streets were quiet, a soft breeze tugging at her sleeves. Everything was exactly the way it should be.
Except it wasn't.
She passed by the old community board near the park. Torn flyers. Dusty corners. A photograph hung there — a group of kids from years ago, all smiling in front of that same withered tree from her dreams.
She stepped closer.
Eight kids. Four boys, four girls.
She counted them again.
Eight.
But her heart whispered nine.
There was a strange space between two of the kids — like the photo had been stretched, like someone had been there... and then wasn't.
A chill crept down her spine.
She turned and walked faster.
Something was wrong with the world.
Later, in her room, she sat on her bed, staring at nothing.
Her fingers itched. Restless. Without thinking, she opened her drawer and pulled out an old notebook — the kind she hadn't touched in years.
She flipped through the pages. Doodles. Notes. Random thoughts.
Then, at the very back — a page that shouldn't exist.
Blank, except for a single word, scrawled in her own handwriting:
Ethan.
She stared at it. Her heart hammered. Her breath caught.
"Who…?"
The name meant nothing.
And yet, it felt like everything.