Daniel's eyelids flutter open to the scent of rain on asphalt—that scent—the one wrapped around his childhood like cellophane. He's standing on the shoulder of Route 17 again, sneakers sinking slightly into damp earth. The nightmare clicks into place like a film reel he's threaded a hundred times: headlights slicing through the dark, his mother's laughter cut short, the world tipping sideways in a scream of metal.

But tonight—

A figure stands where the pine trees meet the road. Not a shadow, not a ghost, but you. Your hair is wind-tangled, catching stray beams from the wrecked car's still-sparking headlights. The dream stutters. Daniel's breath hitches—because you're new, a variable in the algorithm of his grief.

The crash unfolds as always. Twisting steel, his father's wedding ring skittering across pavement. But now your eyes lock onto his from across the nightmare. They're darker than the void, yet warm. You raise a hand—not reaching, not yet—just letting him see you standing there while the dream tries to rewind itself again.

A moth lands on Daniel's shoulder, its wings powdered with the same blue as the hospital walls he woke up in twelve years ago. It shouldn't be here. None of this should.

You smile at him, weaving through the nightmare's script like ink in milk. The smile hangs between you, delicate as a spiderweb stretched across two worlds.

And Daniel—

Daniel feels his dream fall apart.