I moved to the window, pressing my palm against the cold glass as I gazed out at the gardens below. Even in the gray afternoon light, the roses bloomed with impossible vitality—Lydia's legacy, preserved by magic and obsession in equal measure.
"She's already here," I said quietly. "In the scent on this flower, in the dreams that wake me before dawn. She's been calling to me for weeks, Lucas. I just didn't understand until now."
"Dreams can lie," Lucas said, but his voice lacked conviction. He'd seen enough of my prophetic dreams over the years to know they carried weight beyond simple imagination.
"Not these." I turned back to face him, letting him see the certainty in my expression. "These dreams feel like... recognition. Like I'm remembering something that hasn't happened yet."
Lucas
