The dream came again.
Almond stood barefoot in a field of white poppies, the air thick with the scent of something sweet and old—like pressed flowers hidden between the pages of an unread book. The sky overhead wasn’t blue but a swirling shade of lavender and pale gold, painted as if the world had forgotten what time it was.
And then she heard it.67Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQUnQbH5dnX
A voice—low, warm, and filled with something like longing.
“Almond.”
Her name wasn’t spoken so much as breathed. Like the wind carried it, threading it through the poppies, letting it settle on her skin.
She turned, as she always did, trying to find him.
He was never far. A silhouette just out of reach. A boy with messy hair and eyes she couldn’t see, yet somehow knew were full of stars. He never chased her, never called her to come closer. He just waited, as if he knew she would take the step.
And she always did.
She ran across the field, petals flying, heart pounding—not with fear, but with the ache of missing someone she’d never met. Her fingers outstretched, reaching for him.
But as always, just before they touched—67Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVw3KotCk7Q
The world unraveled.
Almond awoke in her attic room, tangled in sheets, a trace of dream still heavy on her chest. Morning light filtered through the crooked skylight, drawing soft lines across the wood-paneled ceiling.
She lay still for a moment, her hand half-curled, as if it remembered the shape of his.
The boy. The dream. Again.
She turned her head and stared at the stack of books piled beside her mattress—spines cracked, titles half-faded. A few were books she’d read a dozen times. Some she’d never opened. And one, she swore, hadn’t been there yesterday.
Almond sat up slowly and rubbed her eyes. It was always like this. Dream. Wake. Forget. Remember. And repeat.
She had never told anyone about the dreams. Not her aunt, who raised her after her parents died when she was seven. Not the other apprentices at the bindery. Not even her best friend Mina, who would’ve probably leaned in and said, “Girl, that is 100% your soulmate. Go find him.”
But what was she supposed to say?
I keep dreaming of a boy who whispers my name like we’ve been in love for centuries. I think he’s real, but I don’t know his name, or face, or anything—except that every time I wake up, I miss him like I’ve lost someone I’ve never had.
She sighed and reached for the book that didn’t belong. The cover was unmarked—leather-bound, warm to the touch. When she opened it, the pages were blank… except for the very center.
There, in handwriting that wasn’t hers, three words were written.
“I remember you.”
Her heart skipped.
The voice whispered again—this time wide awake.
“Soon.”
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