The Dream Between Us

The first thing Clay heard was the beeping.

Slow.

Steady.

Rhythmic.

A sound that seemed to rise from the bottom of a deep lake.

Then came the smell.

Sharp antiseptic.

Clean linen.

The faint sterile chill of conditioned air.

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy.

For a long moment, he lay suspended between darkness and light, caught in the fading edges of the void.

Lydia’s face still burned behind his eyes.

Her tears.

Her voice.

Goodbye, Clay.

His chest jolted.

No.

His eyes flew open.

Bright white light flooded his vision.

He winced, breath catching painfully in his throat.

The ceiling above him was smooth and pale.

A hospital ceiling.

His head turned slowly.

Machines.

IV lines.

A heart monitor blinking green.

The realization hit him like a wave.

His body.

He was back in it.

His fingers twitched against the blanket.

Real.

Heavy.

Alive.

A strangled sound escaped him.

Then the door burst open.

“Clay?”

His mother.

She rushed to the bedside so quickly her chair scraped harshly across the floor.

Tears were already streaming down her face.

“Oh my God! Clay, sweetheart!!”

She grabbed his hand carefully, as though afraid he might disappear again.

Her face was older than he remembered.

More tired.

Soft lines at the corners of her eyes.

Grief etched into every feature.

He stared at her.

Fragments flashed.

A kitchen.

Her laughing.

A hand brushing hair from his forehead when he was sick.

The memory made his throat tighten.

“Mom…”

Her breath broke into a sob.

“You’re awake.”

A nurse hurried in behind her, followed by a doctor.

Voices filled the room.

Questions.

Can you hear me?

Do you know your name?

Can you squeeze my hand?

Clay answered automatically.

But his mind was elsewhere.

Lydia.

Every second felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

He tried to sit up.

Pain shot through his muscles, sharp and immediate.

The doctor gently pressed him back.

“Easy. You’ve been unconscious for a long time.”

“How long?”

The room fell quiet.

His mother looked down.

The doctor answered softly.

“Three years.”

The words landed like thunder.

Three years.

The Keeper had been telling the truth.

Clay stared at the ceiling.

Three years gone.

And Lydia…

No.

He turned sharply toward his mother.

“I need to go.”

Her face crumpled.

“What?”

“I have to leave.”

The doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse.

“Clay, you’ve just regained consciousness. Your body is severely deconditioned.”

He pushed himself upright again.

“I have to find someone.”

His mother’s eyes widened.

“Clay, please, you need to rest.”

“No.”

His voice came out harsher than he intended.

He softened slightly.

“Mom, I have to find Lydia.”

Silence.

His mother blinked.

“Who?”

The question hollowed him.

He stared at her.

“She…”

His words caught.

How could he explain?

The void.

The threshold.

The dreams.

The world between.

He swallowed hard.

“She’s real.”

His mother gently pressed his shoulder.

“Honey, you’ve just woken up from a traumatic coma. Sometimes patients experience vivid dream memories.”

Dream.

The word ignited something angry inside him.

“No.”

His voice was sharp now.

“She’s not a dream.”

The doctor stepped closer.

“We’re going to give you something to help you sleep.”

Panic flashed through him.

Sleep.

Back into darkness.

No.

He jerked away.

“I said no.”

His mother’s face broke.

“Clay, please.”

He looked at her.

Really looked.

The exhaustion in her eyes.

The years she had waited beside an empty body.

Guilt hit him.

But stronger still was the memory of Lydia pounding on the gate.

Crying his name.

He lowered his voice.

“I’m sorry. I just need time.”

The doctor nodded carefully.

“We’ll let you rest.”

Rest.

Clay said nothing.

He waited.

Hours passed.

The room darkened.

Machines continued their quiet rhythm.

His mother eventually fell asleep in the chair beside him, exhaustion finally claiming her.

Clay lay still.

Listening.

Watching.

Waiting.

When the clock on the wall clicked past midnight, he slowly pulled the IV from his arm.

Pain flared.

He ignored it.

His muscles screamed as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Weak.

Unsteady.

But moving.

He stood.

The room tilted.

He grabbed the bed rail until the dizziness passed.

Then, step by step, he moved.

Hospital gown.

Bare feet.

The corridor outside was dim and silent.

He slipped past the nurses’ station while the overnight staff were distracted.

The cold night air hit him like a slap as he stepped outside.

Alive.

Really alive.

He shivered in the moonlight.

Then he began walking.

His legs trembled with every step, but his mind knew exactly where to go.

Marcus.

His best friend.

If anyone would believe him…

if anyone could help him…

it would be Marcus.

The walk felt endless.

By the time he reached the small brick house across town, sweat dampened his hair and every muscle in his body burned.

He pounded weakly on the door.

A porch light flicked on.

Footsteps.

Then the door opened.

Marcus froze.

His face drained of color.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then…

“Clay?”

Clay’s voice broke.

“I need your help.”