Darkness gripped him.
Not the dream kind — this was heavy, breathless, real.He couldn't move. Not even blink.
His chest strained like something invisible sat on it. He tried to scream, but no sound came. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision — not quite shapes, not quite smoke. They shimmered. They whispered.
And then…
A candle flickered.Soft. Warm. A single flame.
It floated in the dark like it didn't belong there — old-fashioned, resting in a brass holder shaped like twisted vines. There was something etched along the edge.But he couldn't read it.
Just as quickly as it appeared—Snap.
He woke up.
The ceiling stared back, dull and gray.His room, ordinary. Still.
He lay there, breathing hard, sweat cooling on his skin. Muscles sore. Palms clenched. The flicker still played behind his eyes.
Another dream.Another paralysis.Another glimpse of her.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his face. The candle — it hadn't felt like a dream. Every detail was burned into his memory.
But that was impossible.
Later That Day
The attic greeted him with the soft creak of old wood and the scent of dust and time.He hadn't been up here in years.
But something had pulled him — a memory, or maybe just a feeling he couldn't explain.
He moved aside a few boxes until he found one marked in his mother's handwriting.
Inside: old photos, notebooks, yellowed newspaper clippings… and at the very bottom, wrapped in a faded cloth—
The candleholder.
Exactly as he saw it. Same brass curves. Same strange chill when his fingers brushed it.Same sense that it was watching him, somehow.
He stared. Not breathing.
He'd never seen this before.Not in this life.
But he remembered it anyway.
He set it on his desk, slowly, carefully.And in the quiet of the late afternoon…
He could've sworn the flame flickered again.