Run. Keep running. Don't look back.

  My feet pounded against stone, each step echoing down corridors that shouldn't exist. The symbols on the walls pulsed with golden light, tracking my movement like sentient eyes. Behind me—something vast and ancient pursued, its presence a weight pressing against reality.

  I reached a dead end. Massive stone doors stood before me, covered in intricate patterns that shifted and rearranged themselves. My fingers traced the central design instinctively, following paths I somehow knew.

  This doesn't make sense. How do I know—

  The symbols flared to life beneath my touch. The door rumbled. Beyond it lay a chamber bathed in impossible light, and at its center—

  I jolted awake, sweat-soaked sheets twisted around my legs like restraints. My heart hammered against my ribs with such force I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. The dream—vivid as reality one moment—dissolved like smoke. But the glowing geometric pattern remained, tattooed on the back of my eyelids.

  Three a.m. Dead hour. The witching hour, as my third foster mother used to say before crossing herself. The hour when the barrier between worlds grows thin.

  I fumbled for the light switch, knocking over a half-empty mug of yesterday's coffee. The sudden brightness made me wince. With trembling hands, I reached for the leather-bound journal that never left my bedside. Its pages bulged with loose sketches and notes, scraps of paper shoved between entries. Eight years of dreams cataloged like artifacts.

  My pen hovered over a blank page. The pattern was already fading, details slipping away like water through fingers. I closed my eyes, trying to recapture it. The geometry had been different this time—more fluid, the angles less harsh. Six interlocking circles arranged in a pattern reminiscent of a honeycomb, but with odd, asymmetrical lines connecting the centers.

  I sketched quickly, messily. Precision mattered less than capturing the essence before it disappeared completely. My hand moved almost independently of conscious thought, driven by some muscle memory I couldn't explain.

  "Shit," I muttered, breaking the nib of my favorite pen against the paper. The line quality suffered as I switched to a stubby pencil, but I couldn't stop now. Something about this pattern felt important. Different. As if it were the key to all the others.

  When I finished, I sat back, studying what I'd drawn. The pattern seemed incomplete somehow. Missing something crucial. But it was the best I could do with the fragments left in my memory.

  I flipped through earlier pages, comparing tonight's entry with others. Patterns upon patterns. Some repeating with slight variations, others appearing just once. All of them felt strangely familiar, yet I couldn't place them in any known symbolic system. Not Egyptian, not Sumerian, not Chinese or Sanskrit or anything else I'd researched over the years.

  My alarm clock read 3:27. No point trying to sleep now. In three hours I needed to be at the museum, caffeinated and coherent enough to not screw up my first month as junior research assistant. Dr. Chen had already caught me dozing twice last week during inventory.

  A soft thud drew my attention to the bedroom doorway. Vesper, my one-eyed black cat, stood there, tail twitching. I'd found her—or more accurately, she'd found me—six months ago, appearing at my apartment door the night of my first major dream. She'd been a kitten then, half-starved and missing her right eye, with a distinctive geometric white marking on her chest that had immediately caught my attention.

  "Can't sleep either, huh?" I asked her.

  Vesper ignored me, staring intently at the corner of the room near my closet. Her back arched, fur standing on end. A low hiss escaped her throat.

  I followed her gaze. Nothing there but shadows and my perpetually unpacked moving boxes. I'd been in this apartment for almost a year but still lived like I might need to leave at any moment. Old habits from the foster system died hard.

  "It's nothing, Ves. Just—"

  The cat's hiss transformed into a growl, deep and guttural. I felt the hair on my arms rise in response. For a split second, I could have sworn I saw something move in that corner—a shimmer in the air, like heat rising from asphalt.

  Then Vesper bolted from the room, and whatever I thought I'd seen was gone.

  Get it together, Marcus. You're sleep deprived, not haunted.

  I dragged myself to the shower, letting scalding water pound some sense into me. By the time I'd dressed and downed a cup of coffee strong enough to strip paint, the unsettling night had been filed away under "stress-induced hallucinations."

  My studio apartment sat above an old laundromat in Fremont, one of Seattle's more eclectic neighborhoods. The rent stretched my meager research stipend to breaking point, but the location put me within walking distance of the Museum of Ancient History. On good days, the walk cleared my head. This wasn't going to be a good day.

  Seattle's infamous rain fell in a gentle mist as I locked my door. It beaded on my navy jacket and collected in my dark hair, which needed a cut I couldn't afford. I hunched my shoulders against the damp chill and headed down the narrow staircase to the street below.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The Space Needle pierced the low-hanging clouds in the distance, a familiar landmark that always made me feel grounded somehow. I'd moved to Seattle specifically for the position at the museum, leaving behind the East Coast and the ghosts of six different foster homes. No attachments, no connections. Just me, my dreams, and now Vesper.

  "Nice cat," a voice called out.

  I turned to see my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Petrova, pointing up at my window. Vesper sat in the sill, watching me with her single amber eye. That eye—so similar to my own unusual coloring—was partly why I'd kept her.

  "Morning, Mrs. Petrova," I called back, not stopping to chat. The old woman made me uneasy. She had a habit of studying me too intently, as if she knew something about me that I didn't.

  "She protects you," Mrs. Petrova added, her accent thickening. "Is good."

  I nodded absently and quickened my pace. My hand, still trembling slightly from the night's disturbance, found its way into my pocket where I kept a small, smooth stone—a habit I'd had since childhood. Something to ground me when the world felt unstable.

  The Seattle Museum of Ancient History wasn't as prestigious as institutions in New York or London, but it boasted an impressive collection of Mediterranean artifacts. The building itself was a blend of modern architecture and repurposed historical elements—all glass and steel on the outside, with the interior showcasing exposed brick from the original 1920s structure.

  I slipped in through the staff entrance, nodding to security. My ID badge—still shiny and new enough to make me feel like an impostor—granted me access to the research wing where most of my work took place.

  "You look like death warmed over, Reeves."

  Dr. Eliza Chen stood in the doorway of her office, sharp eyes taking in my disheveled appearance. At fifty-four, she carried herself with the precise dignity of someone who'd spent decades ensuring she was taken seriously in her field. Her silver-streaked black hair was twisted into its usual immaculate bun, and her tailored pantsuit put my rumpled button-down to shame.

  "Late night," I offered, not mentioning the dreams. Dr. Chen was my direct supervisor and the person who'd hired me despite my limited experience. I wasn't about to give her reason to question that decision.

  "Well, you're about to have another one," she said, not unkindly. "The Santorini shipment arrived ahead of schedule. I need you to start cataloging immediately."

  My fatigue vanished, replaced by a surge of genuine excitement. The Santorini collection had been recovered from a previously unexplored section of the ancient Greek island—artifacts potentially dating back to before the catastrophic volcanic eruption that some believed gave rise to the Atlantis myth.

  "Everything's in Research Room C," Dr. Chen continued. "Standard protocol. Photograph, measure, assign preliminary ID numbers. I've left the reference materials you'll need."

  "I'm on it," I said, already heading toward the storage area.

  "Marcus." Her use of my first name made me pause. Dr. Chen studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Be careful with the sealed crate. The one marked with the warning symbols. Leave that for last, and come find me before you open it."

  I nodded, curious about what could warrant such caution, but knew better than to question her directly. Dr. Chen operated on a need-to-know basis, and apparently, I didn't need to know yet.

  Research Room C was a sterile environment designed for the initial processing of new acquisitions. The air smelled faintly of preservative chemicals and old dust. Three large tables dominated the space, already laden with crates of varying sizes. My gaze immediately went to the one Dr. Chen had mentioned—smaller than the others, sealed with both modern locks and what appeared to be an older, more elaborate mechanism. Strange symbols had been carved into its wooden surface, faded but distinct.

  Something about those symbols pricked at my memory. They weren't identical to the patterns in my dreams, but there was a similarity in their construction—a mathematical precision to the angles that felt familiar.

  Focus, Marcus. You've got a job to do.

  I started with the larger crates, methodically unpacking, photographing, and logging each item. Most were ceramic fragments—pieces of ancient pottery with traces of paint still visible. Some stonework, worn by time and seawater. A few metal implements, green with corrosion. Ordinary artifacts that told the story of ordinary lives, preserved by circumstance and disaster.

  The hours slipped by as I worked. The museum grew quiet around me as staff departed. Dr. Chen stopped by briefly at six to check my progress and remind me to set the security system when I left. By eight, my eyes burned from squinting at tiny details, and my back ached from hunching over the examination table.

  Only the mysterious crate remained.

  I should have called Dr. Chen as instructed. But she'd already left for the day, and my curiosity had been building for hours. Surely I could at least examine the exterior without waiting. Document the symbols, take measurements, prepare for tomorrow's opening.

  The crate was heavier than it looked. Made of some dense, dark wood I couldn't immediately identify. The warning symbols had been carved deep into its surface, then inlaid with what might have been metal or stone. Age had worn away most of the inlay, leaving only traces.

  I carefully set up my camera to photograph each side. As I adjusted the angle for the fifth shot, my hand slipped on the metal edge of the table. Pain flared across my palm—a deep cut that immediately welled with blood.

  "Dammit," I hissed, jerking back. A crimson droplet fell, landing squarely on the central symbol of the crate.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the blood seemed to... move. Spread. Flow along the grooves of the symbol like water finding the path of least resistance. I stared, transfixed, as it traced the pattern completely before seeming to sink into the wood itself.

  A faint click broke the silence.

  The ancient locking mechanism had released.

  I stumbled backward, knocking over my chair. This wasn't possible. Blood didn't behave that way. Locks didn't respond to biological material. There had to be a rational explanation—perhaps I'd inadvertently pressed something, or the mechanism was more fragile than it appeared.

  Clean it up. Lock it down. Tell no one.

  Moving quickly, I grabbed alcohol wipes from the first aid kit and scrubbed at the surface of the crate, erasing all evidence of my blood. The cut on my hand stung fiercely as I wrapped it in gauze. With shaking hands, I reengaged the modern locks and secured the crate with additional straps from the supply cabinet.

  By the time I left the museum, it was nearly midnight. The rain had intensified, turning the streets into mirrors that reflected the city lights. My mind raced with explanations, each less convincing than the last. Coincidence. Imagination. Stress-induced hallucination.

  But as I collapsed into bed without bothering to undress, I knew the truth. Something impossible had happened, and it had happened specifically to me.

  Sleep claimed me almost instantly. The dream returned with savage intensity. The symbols burned brighter than ever, pulsing with an inner light that seemed to reach through the barrier of sleep and touch something deep within me. The pattern I'd drawn earlier completed itself in my mind's eye, the missing elements falling into place with devastating clarity.

  And this time, there was more. A voice—distinctly female, both ancient and immediate—whispering a single word that echoed through layers of consciousness:

  "Remember."