The morning light filtered softly through Shirou's window, its warmth tugging him out of a restless sleep. He stirred, his limbs heavy as though he'd been running all night. His eyes blinked open, and for a moment, he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Something was off.
His chest felt tight, as if the air around him carried a weight he couldn't name. His mind was hazy, fragments of a dream flitting through his thoughts like the edges of a half-forgotten melody. There had been… a vast plain, endless and quiet. A voice, deep and commanding, speaking words he couldn't recall.
Shirou sat up slowly, rubbing his temples. The harder he tried to focus, the more the images slipped away, dissolving into nothingness.
"What was it?" he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse from sleep.
The faint echo of the dream lingered, a sensation more than a memory. It left him feeling restless and unsteady, as though he'd been given a message of great importance but forgotten the words the moment he woke.
Shirou shuffled out of bed and into the hallway, his feet dragging slightly. The smell of tea wafted through the house, accompanied by the quiet clatter of dishes. He followed the sounds to the kitchen, where Kiritsugu was seated at the table, a steaming cup in front of him.
Kiritsugu glanced up as Shirou entered, his tired eyes narrowing slightly. "Rough night?"
Shirou hesitated, then nodded. "I think so. I… had a dream, but I can't remember it."
Kiritsugu took a slow sip of his tea. "Dreams can be strange that way. Sometimes they feel important, but when you wake up, they're gone."
Shirou slid into the chair across from him, his brow furrowed. "This one was different. It wasn't like a normal dream. It felt real."
Kiritsugu set his cup down, leaning forward slightly. "Real, how?"
Shirou opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. How could he explain it? The vast steppe, the swirling stars, the figure cloaked in wind and power—all of it felt so vivid, yet now it was like trying to grasp water with his hands.
"I don't know" Shirou said finally. "It's like… I was somewhere else. And someone was talking to me, but I can't remember what they said."
Kiritsugu studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window.
"Dreams have a way of pulling things out of us," he said. "Our fears, our hopes. Sometimes they're nothing more than a reflection of what's already in our hearts."
Shirou frowned. His heart felt heavy, weighed down by something he couldn't name. He wanted to believe Kiritsugu's explanation, but deep down, he felt that the dream was more than just a reflection.
The day passed in a haze. Shirou went through the motions of his routine—tending to the garden, practicing with his wooden sword—but his mind remained distracted. The remnants of the dream tugged at the edges of his thoughts, like a whisper he couldn't quite hear.
By the time evening rolled around, Shirou was no closer to understanding what had happened. Frustration simmered beneath the surface, and he found himself standing in the backyard, staring up at the sky.
The stars were beginning to emerge, their faint light twinkling against the deepening darkness. Shirou's gaze wandered, searching for answers he knew he wouldn't find.
"What was it?" he muttered, clenching his fists. "What did you want me to remember?"
His voice carried softly into the night, swallowed by the stillness. The ceremonial sword fragment sat on the porch railing, its surface gleaming faintly in the starlight. Shirou turned to it, his brow furrowing.
"Was it about you?" he asked, stepping closer to the fragment.
He picked it up carefully, his fingers brushing against the intricate patterns etched into the metal. The cool surface felt almost alive, a faint warmth radiating from it as though responding to his touch.
For a brief moment, a flash of the dream surfaced in his mind: the figure standing on the hill, their cloak billowing in the wind. The voice echoed faintly, distant and indistinct.
"Prove it."
The words sent a shiver down Shirou's spine, and the image vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Later that night, as Shirou lay in bed, sleep refused to come. He stared out the window at the stars, their light faint and unwavering. The ceremonial sword fragment rested on the shelf across the room, its presence a quiet reminder of the mystery he couldn't unravel.
The memory of the dream remained just out of reach, teasing him with its significance. But even without the details, Shirou felt its weight—a sense of expectation, of something greater waiting for him beyond the horizon.
He closed his eyes, his thoughts swirling.
In the dream world, the steppe stretched endlessly beneath the stars, silent and eternal. The figure stood atop the hill once more, their gaze fixed on the horizon.
"The boy's resolve is strong" they murmured, their voice carried by the wind. "But he must remember. Without memory, there can be no purpose."
The stars above pulsed faintly, their light casting the figure's shadow long across the plains.