Becky didn't speak about the dream the next morning.
Not during breakfast.
Not during lectures.
Not even when Gail poked her for the third time to answer a simple question in class.
She only stared out the window, her fingers clenched around her pen, the forest from last night still pressing on her chest.
She didn't feel tired.
She felt watched.
When the final bell rang, she avoided her friends and wandered to the university's oldest building
—a quiet place where almost no one went. The hallway smelled of old paper and rain-soaked wood.
Room 27 was open.
She didn't know why she stepped inside. Or why there was a single chair, a small table, and an untouched glass of red liquid waiting for her.
On the wall, someone had written in chalk:
"Would you like to have some wine?"
Her blood turned cold.
This wasn't a dream. She was awake. She bit her tongue hard, just to be sure. The pain was real.
And yet… the wine sat there like it had been poured for her hours ago.
No footsteps. No voices. No explanation.
Just silence
—and a message left by something that knew her better than she knew herself.