The clock ticked softly in the background, the quiet rhythm blending with the faint hum of Aiden's computer. He sat at his desk, staring at the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard but unmoving. The events of the past few days replayed in his mind like a broken record—the attack, the pull, the aftermath. He couldn't make sense of it no matter how hard he tried.
The knock at his door startled him. He blinked, realizing he had lost track of time. It was almost 10 p.m. He opened the door to find Lila, still in her work uniform, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She looked tired, but her smile was warm.
"Hey," she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You look awful."
"Thanks," Aiden muttered, closing the door behind her. "Long day?"
"You could say that," Lila replied, collapsing onto his couch with a dramatic sigh. "But at least I didn't spend it obsessing over something I can't control."
Aiden shot her a look. "I wasn't obsessing."
"You were," she said, sitting up and fixing him with a pointed stare. "And that's why I'm here. You need to get out of your head for a bit."
Aiden leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "I'm fine, Lila."
"No, you're not," she said, her tone softening. "Look, I get it. What happened was... messed up. But you sitting here all night, staring at your screen, isn't going to change anything."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "So, what do you suggest?"
Lila grinned. "Breakfast. Tomorrow. 9 a.m. My treat."
Aiden raised an eyebrow. "You just got off work, and you want to get up early for breakfast?"
"I'm doing it for you," she said, her grin softening into a small smile. "You need this. Trust me."
For the first time in days, Aiden felt a faint flicker of relief. "Fine," he said. "But only if you promise not to judge me for ordering way too much food."
"Deal," Lila said, standing up and heading for the door. "And bring your sketchbook. We're hitting the park after."
Aiden rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "Goodnight, Lila."
"Goodnight, Aiden," she said, waving as she left.
Back at his desk, Aiden tried to focus on his screen again, but his thoughts wandered. He glanced at the time—10:47 p.m.—and sighed. His eyes felt heavy, his mind foggy. He leaned back in his chair, intending to close his eyes for just a moment.
Sleep came quickly, but it wasn't restful.
The nightmare was vivid, too real to be just a dream. He was standing in the middle of a vast, empty field. The sky was dark, swirling with thick, black clouds that crackled with unnatural lightning. The air was heavy, suffocating, and the ground beneath him felt unstable, as if it might give way at any moment.
In the distance, he saw the office building—the one from the attack. It stood alone, its windows intact, its structure pristine. But something was wrong. Shadows writhed around its base like living things, coiling upward and dragging the building down, piece by piece.
"Aiden," a voice called, faint and echoing. He turned, but no one was there.
The pull returned, stronger this time, gripping his chest like an iron vice. He stumbled forward, drawn toward the building against his will. His legs refused to obey him, moving in jerky, unnatural steps. The closer he got, the louder the voice became.
"Aiden."
The shadows surged toward him, their forms twisting into jagged, humanoid figures with glowing crimson eyes. They reached for him, their touch cold and suffocating. He tried to scream, but no sound came out.
Then he woke up.
The alarm blared, a harsh, jarring sound that yanked Aiden out of the nightmare. He sat up in his chair, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The early morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting the room in soft hues of orange and gold.
"Just a dream," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "It was just a dream."
But the pull still lingered, faint but undeniable.
The alarm continued to blare, and Aiden groaned, reaching over to shut it off. The clock read 8:15 a.m. He had just enough time to get ready and meet Lila.
Shaking off the remnants of the nightmare, he shuffled into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. The reflection in the mirror looked tired, but at least he was awake.
By 8:45, Aiden was dressed and ready to leave. He grabbed his jacket, keys, and wallet before heading for the door. As he reached for the handle, something nagged at the back of his mind.
His sketchbook.
He turned back, spotting it on his desk, half-hidden beneath a pile of papers. He hesitated for a moment, then grabbed it. Lila would never let him hear the end of it if he forgot.
Sketchbook in hand, Aiden stepped out into the crisp morning air. The nightmare lingered in the corners of his mind, but he pushed it aside. Today was about moving forward. About forgetting.
Or at least trying to.