I groaned, forcing myself upright, my head still foggy from the dream—no, the vision. The scent of the man's cologne still clung to my senses, a strange mix of spice and something almost metallic. I could still feel his hand on my shoulder, warm, grounding, real.
But the orphanage had no patience for dreams.
A sharp rap on the wooden bedpost made me flinch.
"Up, boy!" Mrs. Carter's voice was sharp enough to cut steel.
I exhaled slowly, clenching my fists beneath the thin blanket. Another day. Another shift of endless work for pennies I'd never see.
Life at Carter Orphanage wasn't life at all—it was servitude. The Carters, ever the model citizens on the surface, ran this place like a sweatshop. Children as young as ten were sent to work—laundromats, hotels, factories—their wages funneled straight into the Carters' greedy pockets. Local officials looked the other way, their silence bought and paid for.
And we? We were nothing more than ghosts. Unseen, unheard, disposable.
I yanked on my work clothes, the rough fabric a stark contrast to the weightless cloak from my dream. The orphanage halls were already filling with tired, hollow-eyed kids, all of them moving like sleepwalkers toward another day of forced labor.
I shuffled to the back of the line, my mind still gripping onto the fragments of my vision.
Who was that man? And why had he called me his vessel?
Before I could untangle the thought, Mrs. Carter's voice sliced through my concentration.
"Move along! Alec, Grand Arcadia Hotel today. Laundry duty. And remember—no talking. I hear you've been telling stories, and no one likes a tattletale."
Tattletale? The accusation almost made me laugh. The Carters had spent years beating obedience into us—literally and figuratively. If a kid so much as whispered about running away or speaking out, they found ways to make sure you never did it again.
I bit back a retort. Words wouldn't win against people like them.
Outside, the morning air was cold and damp, the sky a dull slate gray. The van was already waiting. The other boys climbed in without a word, and I followed, sinking into the worn seat as the doors slammed shut.
The ride into the city was silent. It always was.
I kept my gaze on the window, watching the world blur past. The city was alive—cars rushing, people laughing, neon signs flickering against towering buildings. A world so full, so vibrant… yet entirely out of reach.
And still, my mind drifted back.
That man—his disheveled vest, his wild grin, his knowing eyes. He had spoken to me as if I were someone important. And the ghost—Casper, or whatever his name was—had obeyed him like a loyal servant.
"I hope you'll agree to be my vessel."
The words settled in my bones, heavy and electric. What had he meant? What was a vessel? The idea should have scared me, but instead… I felt something else.
Curiosity.
The van jerked to a stop.
We had arrived at Grand Arcadia, the hotel looming over me like a stone titan.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of polished wood and expensive perfume. No grand entrance for us, though—we were ushered through the back, straight to the basement, where the real work began.
A grimy apron was shoved into my hands. No words, no instructions. Didn't need them. I knew the drill.
The basement laundry room was a sweltering pit of bleach and damp cloth. Machines rumbled like caged beasts, swallowing sheets and spitting them back out in steaming piles. The other kids moved around me like ghosts—folding, scrubbing, lifting—faces expressionless, eyes devoid of hope.
I took my place by the industrial washer, shoving in armfuls of linens, slamming the door shut, and pressing the worn-out buttons. The machine groaned in protest, but it worked. It always worked.
And so did we.
As my hands moved on autopilot, my thoughts refused to stay caged.
That man's voice. His strange request. The eerie familiarity in his gaze.
What did he see in me?
More importantly—what did he know that I didn't?
A single thought took root in my mind. If there was even the slimmest chance that man—and whatever world he belonged to—was real… I had to find him.
Because if he was real, then maybe, just maybe…
He was my way out.
And I would take that chance.
No matter the cost.
.....
I leaned against the dryer, exhaustion pressing down on me like a lead weight. The machine thumped rhythmically beside me, its steady hum lulling me into a daze. The basement of the Grand Arcadia Hotel was suffocating, thick with steam and the stench of bleach. Sweat clung to my skin, but I barely noticed.
I was used to this.
Waiting for the last load of linens to dry. Watching the endless cycle of work, sweat, obey, repeat.
My head dipped. My eyelids grew heavy.
And before I knew it—
I was barefoot.
Warm sand curled around my toes, soft and golden beneath me. A salty breeze lifted my hair, and the air was thick with the scent of the ocean. Waves rolled in, steady and endless, crashing against the shore in a hypnotic rhythm. The water was impossibly blue, a shimmering mix of deep navy and bright turquoise, reflecting streaks of orange and pink that painted the sky.
My heart pounded.
A beach?
I'd never seen the ocean before. Not in real life, anyway. But I could feel this—the sun's heat on my skin, the way the wind tangled in my hair. It was so real.
All around me, people basked in the beauty of it. Some lay sprawled on towels, soaking in the sun. Others laughed as they raced through the shallows, water splashing around their legs. And further out, a few surfers glided effortlessly over the waves, carving through the water like they belonged to it.
One surfer caught my eye.
He moved like he was part of the ocean itself—fluid, precise, completely in sync with the rolling tide. He cut through the water with ease, balancing effortlessly as he rode a wave, his body shifting with every ripple. I watched, transfixed, as he finished his ride and paddled back toward shore.
The moment he stepped onto the sand, I felt it.
Recognition.
I didn't know him. And yet, somehow, I did.
Saltwater dripped from his long, sun-streaked hair. His wetsuit clung to his frame, and his eyes—blue, like the sea on a stormless day—held an intensity that made my chest tighten.
And then he smiled.
A slow, knowing smile. The kind I'd always wanted someone to give me.
"Hey there, kid." His voice was steady, smooth—like the tide rolling over the shore.
I hesitated. "H-Hi."
His eyes twinkled with something between amusement and familiarity. "Never been surfing, have you?"
I shook my head. "No… but I've always wanted to."
The words left my mouth before I even thought about them, but they were true.
He chuckled. "Good answer." Then he glanced toward the waves, his expression turning thoughtful. "You see, the ocean—it has a rhythm. A pulse. You don't just ride the waves, you listen to them. You move with them."
I followed his gaze. And for just a moment, I swore I could feel it—the ocean's steady breath, the invisible pull beneath the surface.
My fingers twitched at my sides.
Could I learn?
Could I be part of something bigger than myself?
The man turned back to me. His smile hadn't faded, but there was something different in his eyes now.
"So, Alec—"
I stiffened.
How did he know my name?
"—do you want to learn?"
I swallowed. My heart was pounding. "You'd teach me?"
"Of course." He knelt down, placing a firm but gentle hand on my shoulder. "Everyone should feel that kind of freedom at least once." His fingers squeezed lightly. "Besides," he added with a knowing look, "I've got a feeling you'd be a natural."
Something inside me cracked.
For the first time in forever, I felt seen. Wanted.
But then, just as quickly, his expression shifted. A shadow passed behind his eyes—affection laced with something heavier. Regret?
His fingers pressed into my shoulder, just a little tighter. His voice dropped.
"But… it's not time yet." A sigh slipped past his lips, barely audible over the crashing waves. "Not just yet."
I swallowed hard. "What do you mean?"
He stood up, brushing sand from his hands. "Just remember, Alec—when the time comes… choose me."
Something cold curled in my stomach. "Choose you? For what?"
His gaze didn't waver. Deep. Certain. Unshakable.
"You'd make a hell of a vessel," he said. "We'd make a great team, you and I."
My breath caught. A vessel?
What did that mean?
I opened my mouth to demand answers, but—
The beach vanished.
"Alec!"
A rough hand smacked my shoulder.
I jolted awake, gasping. My heart pounded against my ribs. Heat pressed in from all sides, and the smell of damp linens and bleach yanked me back to reality.
I was back in the Grand Arcadia basement.
Mrs. Cranston loomed over me, arms crossed, her lips curled in a sneer.
"Wake up, you lazy bones!" she snapped. "If I catch you sleeping on the job again, you'll regret it!"
I barely heard her.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
The beach. The surfer. The words.
"Choose me."
I clenched my fingers into the fabric of my apron, my mind spinning.
The first vision had been strange. But this? This was something else.
That man—whoever he was—had known me. He had spoken to me like he'd been waiting for me.