Nights had slowly turned restless for Aoi. Ever since the day her father had returned from the overseas trip, something had changed in the air: a silent unrest she could not name. It was strange, though; it was not that he alone seemed different to her. It was like his presence weighed down upon the house and into her psyche, as though he had brought something with him.
And then started the dreams.
Faintly, they started, shadows slipping between thoughts, the presence drawing farther away. But recently, in its own very peculiar way, they had become pronounced.
There was always a figure in the dreams. A boy with dark hollow eyes, just out of arms' reach. The distance separating them was irrational-they were separated by some sort of wall, invisible in the waking world. Every time she woke up, his sharply defined features hung in her conscious brain forever.
Aoi never discussed those dreams with anyone, let alone Emi. Emi would have just laughed, called it some weird fantasy, or brushed it off as stress. But she knew better. This was something else.
And then, worst of all, the dreams began to feel not like dreams at all, but like memories.
The Fog of Day
Aoi found herself in art class the next morning, the sketchbook open but untouched before her. Normally, she would draw everything there was felt it, touched it, and venerated it. Today, however, her hand seemed almost reluctant to take up the task and drifted instead toward the dreams straining her mind.
Art had become alien.
She tried to sketch the boy from her dreams, to relay his likeness, but each line smudged, as if she were not allowed by her own mind to paint him.
"Aoi?"
Mrs. Nishida's soft voice brought her back down. Aoi blinked her way into a new reality and saw the white of the paper glaring, now telling time all too clearly.
This kid seems to be somewhere else nowadays, really distracted, was her line of thought across Mrs. Nishida's mind as she continued, Aoi, you can't pull your heart away from your art. But today you were far away from here.
Aoi opened her mouth, but the answer stuck in her throat: how do you explain to someone you were slipping away for something that made no sense?
"I am well," she muttered as she set down her pencil.
Mrs. Nishida raised an eyebrow at her undeterred expression, shook her head softly, and replied, "Righty-o, take a break. I sometimes find a bit of distance helps."
Aoi nodded gratefully, because her classmates were staring at her with wide eyes. Their whispers were droning behind her like the white noise.
The Unknown Presence
The lovely cool breeze felt refreshing against her burning skin. She leaned against the school wall, closed her eyes briefly, and tried to clear the fog from her mind.
What was happening to Aoi?
Since the unusually silent sort of disturbance came upon her, things had seemed to change under her feet, ever since her father's arrival. Dreams, a slow sense of foreboding, a feeling of being pushed towards something unknown.
She slowly inhaled, letting the bracing air wash over her mind.
And then suddenly—A chill ran through her.
Aoi opened her eyes.
That feeling.
It was obscure but unmistakable: someone was watching, somewhere.
Adrenaline kicked in as she started scanning the courtyard. No one was there; just silence against the bright morning with a few rustling leaves.
Yet, the feeling stayed.
Slowly, she turned, beginning her way back to class in hopes of letting the feeling slip away; maybe fatigue was dragging her down; maybe not at all.
But she knew inside herself.
Something was coming.
And soon, it would be known.