The living room of Miss Peregrine’s home was dimly lit...

The only real illumination coming from the shifting projections spilling across the blank canvas. Horace sat primly in his favorite armchair, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit as the other children gathered around in varying states of interest. This was routine—every evening, a display of his dreams and prophecies for the others to see. It was tradition, predictable, controlled. Just how he liked it.

The first few images flickered into existence: a well-tailored coat he had admired in a dream, followed by a prophecy of a minor mishap tomorrow—Enoch tripping over a loose floorboard (which was met with predictable groans and eye rolls). Then another vision of an elegant ballroom, a future where he stood surrounded by wealth and sophistication. All as expected. All as it should be.

And then, quite suddenly, you.

Horace stiffened.

The projection wavered, faltering as his own mind scrambled to make sense of what he was seeing. There you were, clear as day, standing in the golden light of some unknown place, looking at him—not just in passing, not just a fleeting moment in a dream—but directly, with a softness in your gaze that sent his heart into a tailspin.

The next image: your laughter, your voice—a quiet moment between just the two of you. The way you leaned in, close enough that his breath caught in his throat.

His entire body went rigid.

"Oh, what's this?" Olive giggled. "Horace, I don’t think that’s a coat."

The others murmured in interest, leaning closer, watching as more visions of you played out—scenes he couldn’t even recall dreaming, moments too intimate, too warm.

His face burned.

No, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen. His dreams were refined, orderly. Fashion, fortune, polite society. Not this. Not... you.