Dreamer

For as long as I can remember, my nights have been dreamless, like stepping into a void where time stops. One moment, I close my eyes; the next, it’s morning. No images, no whispers of memory just nothingness. But last night was different. Last night, I dreamt for the first time.

I saw them, my mother, my brother, my sister. I stood in the middle of our chaotic morning in the Remerez household, where Mannie was crying over something trivial, Ariel was already dressed for school, and Mom’s voice commanded the room like an orchestra conductor. It was so ordinary, yet it felt extraordinary. I knew I was dreaming, I knew it wasn’t real. And yet, I dropped to my knees and cried. I cried because I finally understood what a dream felt like and because I knew it was a cruel gift. When I opened my eyes, they would be gone again. Maybe God was letting me say goodbye. Or maybe the devil wanted one last laugh.

“Mr. Remerez?” A voice, distant at first, broke through the haze. “Mr. Remerez.”

The voice grew louder, more insistent, pulling me from the dream. I gasped awake, air rushing into my lungs as though I’d been drowning. My chest heaved, my face was damp, and my eyes stung, red and swollen from crying. I blinked against the harsh light of the hospital room. For a moment, I sat frozen, staring at the white ceiling. Then it hit me, the dream was over, and they were gone. Forever.

"Are you alright, Mr. Remerez?"

A nurse stood beside my bed, her tone cautious but kind. I nodded slowly, wiping a stray tear from my cheek with the back of my hand. My gaze shifted to the window, where the branches of a tree swayed gently in the breeze. I didn’t answer her. I didn’t trust my voice. And truthfully, I wasn’t alright. I didn’t know if I’d ever be alright again.

"You’ll be discharged tomorrow," she said softly, placing a stack of papers on the bedside table. "Just sign these whenever you’re ready."

I didn’t move. My eyes stayed fixed on the leaves outside. They spun and twisted in the wind, caught in a pattern that felt almost deliberate. My chest felt hollow, as if the crash had carved out something vital and left me with nothing but an aching emptiness.

"Poor boy," a voice murmured from outside the room, faint but clear.

"I can’t imagine how he feels," another replied.

"It’s tragic… but strange, don’t you think?"

A pause. Then: "Strange?"

"Yes. From what I heard, every member of his family died on the spot. The injuries were… horrific." The voice faltered, lowering as though afraid to be overheard. "But the boy didn’t have a single scratch on him."

A longer pause. Then, softer: "Didn’t they rush him to the ER?"

"yes, i heard he was covered in blood and unconcouis ..."

"Thats true but the blood wasnt his... " a voice mummered as the group grew quiet , "not a scratch, not even a bump on the head "

The voices faded into murmurs, indistinct and distant, as Dante’s gaze remained fixed on the tree outside. Leaves drifted downward in spiraling patterns, caught in the wind’s embrace. The sight was oddly calming, offering a brief reprieve from the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. For a fleeting moment, the chaos of his grief seemed to dissipate, replaced by the chaotic peace of a falling leaf.

Then, the room grew unnaturally still.

A sudden chill crept in, starting at Dante’s toes and snaking its way up his spine. It wasn’t the kind of breeze a draft might bring; it felt deliberate, as if the air itself had shifted.

Bang. Bang.

The sound exploded from the door, loud and jarring, shattering the quiet. Dante flinched, his heart racing as his eyes darted toward the source. The noise was too loud so loud that he doubted it was the door at all.

He sat frozen for a moment, his breath shallow, his body tense. The silence returned, thick and suffocating, until—

BANG. BANG.

Louder this time, the pounding echoed through the room like gunshots. Dante’s chest tightened as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He hesitated, his bare feet brushing against the cold floor, before forcing himself to stand. Step by cautious step, he approached the door, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were bracing for the worst.

When he reached the handle, his hand hovered for a moment, trembling. His mind was blank, not curious, not afraid, just... void. Finally, he pulled the door open in one swift motion.

Nothing.

The hallway was empty, eerily so. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting long, sterile shadows across the floor. Not a soul stirred.

"No one’s here," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible.

He closed the door slowly, the latch clicking into place, and shuffled back to his bed. Lowering himself onto the mattress, he tried to refocus on the tree outside, its leaves still dancing in the wind.

"My dear boy..."

The voice came from accroas the room, soft yet commanding, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

Dante whipped around, his pulse quickening.

"Calm yourself, young man," the voice said, steady and deliberate. "There is much to say, but little time to say it."

The man stood near the far wall, half-shrouded in shadow. He was dressed in black, his coat long and flowing, with dark gray patches streaking the hair beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His eyes were piercing—a shade of blue so pale they seemed almost gray, like the clouds before a storm. He exuded an air of authority, but his demeanor was unsettlingly calm, as though he carried no burdens despite the weight of his presence.

Dante’s throat tightened. He wanted to speak but found no words. Fear and curiosity warred within him, leaving him frozen.

"Listen boy and listen carefully.  Your brother is alive. And I can find him."