Marcus
The voice comes first.
Soft. Urgent.
"Rocco… Rocco, run!"
My eyes snap open.
For a few seconds, I don't know where I am. The world is nothing but blurred shadows and the echo of my own breathing. My chest rises too fast, like I've been sprinting for miles without stopping.
My fingers dig into the bedsheets, gripping them like they're the only thing keeping me from falling somewhere I can't see.
My heart won't slow down.
It never does after that dream.
Slowly, the shapes of my room settle into focus. The crooked blinds. Thin lines of morning light cutting across the floor. Posters on the wall curling slightly at the edges like they've been there too long. A pile of clothes I promised myself I'd fold yesterday… and the day before that.
Everything looks normal.
Everything should feel normal.
But it doesn't.
The dream still clings to me, sharper than usual. Not fading like smoke the way dreams are supposed to. It stays behind my eyes like it's carved there.
A white fence.
A bicycle lying on its side in tall grass.
Smoke drifting through the air, burning my throat even though I know I'm still in my room.
And the voice—
Always the voice.
Calling a name that doesn't belong to me.
Rocco.
I swallow hard and press my palm against my forehead like I can physically push the memory away.
"It's nothing," I whisper to myself. "Just a dream."
But I've been telling myself that for months.
And it's never just a dream.
A knock hits my door.
"Marcus! It's morning!"
My little sister's voice slices through the haze. Bright. Unbothered. Way too awake for this time of day.
"Mum says you need to get ready! First day back as a senior!"
She knocks again, harder this time, like she's trying to break the door down.
"I'm awake, Ella!" I call back, dragging my voice out of frustration. "You can stop now!"
She giggles on the other side like she's won something and I hear her footsteps retreating down the hallway.
I let out a long breath and sit up on the edge of the bed.
Cold air hits my skin immediately. October always feels like it sneaks into the house during the night and refuses to leave.
I rub my arms and stare at the floor for a moment longer than I should.
The dream is still there.
Still watching me.
I push it down.
Shower. Uniform. Routine.
That's how I reset my brain.
By the time I'm dressed, the world feels slightly more stable—like I've reassembled myself into something that passes as normal.
I head downstairs, the smell of breakfast already filling the house.
Dad is at the table, newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other. Calm as always, like nothing in the world has ever surprised him.
Ella is already attacking a stack of pancakes like it's a competition she intends to win.
And Mum moves between them, graceful and steady, flipping pancakes like she's done it a thousand times—which she probably has.
"Morning," I mutter, sliding into my seat.
Mum glances at me immediately. She always does.
"You didn't sleep well again, did you?"
I hesitate. Just a second too long.
"…Kinda."
It's not a lie.
It's just not the whole truth.
She studies me like she's trying to read the parts I don't say out loud, then gently places a plate in front of me.
Ella leans over dramatically. "He looks like a zombie."
"I do not," I say flatly.
"You do," she repeats, completely confident.
I glare at her.
She sticks her tongue out.
Dad doesn't look up from his newspaper. "Both of you, behave."
That's enough to shut us up—temporarily.
For a few minutes, it's just the sound of eating, clinking plates, morning silence pretending to be normal.
But I feel it again.
That pressure behind my thoughts.
The voice.
The name.
Rocco.
I grip my fork tighter and force myself to focus on pancakes instead of memories that don't belong to me.
By the time we leave the house, the feeling has faded into the background again.
Almost.
Ella hops into the passenger seat of my old 2008 Mustang like she owns it.
"Pick me up after school," she says immediately.
"If I don't see you here, I'm leaving you," I reply.
She grins. "Yeah, yeah, old man."
I roll my eyes and start the engine.
Westridge High School is already alive when we arrive.
Noise. Movement. Chaos.
Students flood the entrance in groups—laughing, shouting, hugging like they haven't seen each other in years even though it's only been a break.
I've never been the center of any of it.
But I'm not invisible either.
Being best friends with someone like Noah ensures that.
"Marcus!"
I turn.
Riley Quinn is already walking toward me, pushing through the crowd like she owns space itself.
My oldest friend. The only person I ever told about the dreams.
"Hey," I say as she reaches me.
She studies my face instantly. "You look like you didn't sleep."
"Observant as always."
"Try 'concerning as always.'"
Before I can respond, Noah appears behind her like he's been summoned by chaos itself.
"Ah, my favorite people," he says dramatically.
Riley doesn't even look at him. "Your favorite people don't include me."
"No, you're my least favorite favorite person."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't have to."
I sigh, already used to this.
Then I feel it.
That strange pull in my chest again.
Like something in the crowd has shifted.
Like something is wrong.
I look around without meaning to.
And that's when I see her.
A girl standing near the entrance.
New.
That's obvious.
But it's not just that.
It's the way she stands still in a place that refuses to be still.
Like she doesn't belong to the noise around her.
She turns slightly, scanning the building.
And then her eyes land on me.
For a second—
Just one—
Everything in my head goes quiet.
Too quiet.
My breath catches without permission.
Because she looks…
Familiar.
Not like I know her.
But like I remember her.
Which is impossible.
I've never seen her before.
"Hey," she says, walking closer. Her voice is soft. Careful. "I'm new. Can you point me to the reception?"
I try to answer.
I really do.
But nothing comes out properly.
My mouth opens. Closes.
Riley clears her throat loudly beside me. "Reception? Down the hall to the left."
The girl nods. "Thanks."
Her eyes linger on me for a fraction longer than necessary.
Then she walks away.
And just like that—
The moment breaks.
Noah bursts out laughing. "Bro. You just short-circuited."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did," Riley says.
"I didn't," I repeat, more firmly this time.
But even as I say it, I can't ignore what just happened.
Because my body reacted before my brain did.
Like it recognized something I don't understand.
The bell rings.
Students start moving again.
Noah stretches. "Saved by the bell. See you losers later."
He walks off.
Riley and I head inside.
First period drags like it always does.
Mr. Carter is talking about literature and introductions and something about The Odyssey, but I barely hear him.
My mind keeps slipping back.
White fence.
Bicycle.
Smoke.
The voice.
Rocco.
Then—
Her.
The girl.
Riley nudges me under the desk. "You good?"
"I think so."
"That's not convincing."
"I said I think."
She doesn't push further, but I can feel her watching me anyway.
At some point, I start doodling in my notebook just to keep my hands busy.
Random shapes.
Lines.
Symbols I don't recognize.
I don't remember when I stop thinking and start writing.
Because suddenly—
My hand isn't writing English anymore.
It's writing something else.
Strange letters. Sharp angles. Flowing lines.
I freeze.
"What the—"
"Is that Italian?" Riley whispers.
I stare at the page.
My stomach drops.
"I don't speak Italian," I say.
But I can read it.
Easily.
Like I've always known it.
I turn the notebook slightly.
Riley leans in.
Her face changes instantly.
Because written across the page, in a language I've never learned but somehow understand, are the words:
"Il tempo è vicino a Azzurro."
The time is near… Azzurro.
The air in the room feels different now.
Heavier.
Wrong.
Riley looks at me slowly.
I look back at her.
And for the first time since the dreams began—
I realize something terrifying.
It's not just in my sleep anymore.
It's starting to follow me awake.