Elira Nocturne

The Dreamless Dreamer

She watched the world from the corner seat by the window.

Where the glass blurred the line between her and everything else.

At seventeen, Elira had learned the art of stillness —

not peace,

but a quiet that grows from asking too many questions no one answers.

She used to write.

Now she only drew spirals in the margins of her notes.

The same shape. Again and again.

It felt like a memory. But of what, she couldn’t say.

Lately, she’d been seeing things.

A clock that didn’t exist.

A silver key in her locker she never put there.

And names she didn’t remember learning.

One of them was her own.