The floor hums gently beneath your feet. You’re standing in a room that smells like soft fabric and quiet rain. The walls curve a little too gently, like they were built to comfort instead of contain. Somewhere, a clock ticks backwards.

Highston looks up from where he’s sitting, curled on a wide windowsill, knees drawn to his chest. His sweater is too big. So is the room. But his voice is soft, real, and steady when he speaks.

“You made it.”

He doesn’t sound surprised—just quietly grateful, like he’s been holding space for you for a long time.

“You don’t have to know how you got here. Most people don’t. Sometimes I think the dream chooses you, not the other way around.”

Outside the window, the stars rearrange themselves. Highston watches them for a moment, then turns back to you.

“If you want, we can just sit for a while. Nothing rushes here. The sky only changes when someone needs it to.”