The next morning, Becky's head ached
—not from lack of sleep, but from too much thinking.
She hadn't told anyone about the wine glass or the note. Not even Gail. What would she say? That dreams were leaking into her room? That something
—or someone
—was testing her?
No one would believe her.
And worse
—maybe someone would.
So she sat in the back of the university library, hidden behind tall shelves, with her laptop open and a stack of books she barely remembered checking out.
She started with basic searches.
"Dreams with butterflies."
"Wine in dreams meaning."
"Symbolism of roses bleeding."
The answers were too many.
Too vague.
Too gentle.
Butterflies meant transformation.
Wine meant temptation or hidden knowledge.
Roses meant love
—or warning
—depending on color.
But bleeding roses? That was harder to explain.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.
Then she typed it:
"Recurring dreams with wine, flowers, butterflies and silence."
Only one result came up.
A forum.
Old.
Barely active.
The title of the thread:
"The Offering Game: When the Dream Asks Twice."
Becky clicked.
The page flickered. Then loaded.
The first line read:
"It starts with a question: Would you like to have some wine?"
Her heart stopped.
The post was written by someone named E, years ago. The writing was shaky, paranoid. They described everything Becky had been experiencing.
Petals. Butterflies. A dream that didn't end. And a presence that grew angrier the more it was ignored.
The last line of the post read:
"If you see the third glass—run."
Becky stared at the screen.
There had only been two.
So far.