52
I open my eyes to the blackness of my bedroom. I gasp and clutch at my pajamas. Then I press my hand to my abdomen. The star-shaped scar, flat and ridged, is still there. It pulses beneath my hand.
The watch lies on the bed next to me, the time stopped. It’s midnight. Christmas Eve.
I still have time.
I can dream again.
I can try again.
But first?—
I grab the watch, fling the duvet back, and then sprint across the cold floor. I fly down the darkened hallway, down the stairs, down the shadowed back hallway, until I’m at the wooden cellar door.
I yank it open and the same musty, stagnant cellar scent heaves over me. I flick on the lights and the buzzing yellow glow illuminates the winding stone steps and the narrow stone walls that lead down. The wet chill of the old stone cellar coats me as I run down the uneven steps. I grasp the cold wooden handrail and then run across the stones. The cold seeps into my bare feet. My hurried steps echo across the stone and I hear the responding echo of scurried claws rushing to dive into a shadowed corner. There’s the dripping of leaking water, the mineral, dusty scent, the muffled quiet of an underground cavern cellar disturbed by my flight.
The chill sinks into my bones as I sprint through the cellar. Dust kicks up after me.
Until I’m there.
I tug the old chain and the blue-white light buzzes. It washes the storage room in harsh light. I set the gold pocket watch on top of the upright wine barrel.
And then I drop to my knees. I hit the stone with a hard crack and thrust aside the dusty wine bottle. The cobwebs stick to my hand as I reach into the crate. I hit the wooden sides, brush aside sticky webs and dust, and then my hand hits a damp, cold, folded piece of paper. The cold metal of a gun.
My heart leaps, clattering into my throat.
I tug them out.
The cold of the hard stone digs into my knees, and I shiver at the chill abrading my skin.
My hand shakes as I wipe the cobwebs from the black handgun. I set it aside, dropping it to the stone floor.
The buzzing of the overhead light is loud, and the musty, vinegary scent of the cellar chokes and taunts.
The paper is wet from the damp air. I unfold the note, careful not to tear the paper.
My stomach clenches. My breath catches in my throat.
The words on the paper are stark. Real. Written one year ago.
By me.
It’s real. What I dream is real. I can change what happens.
I focus on the last words I wrote.
I grip the note in my hand.
Save them.
Save them.
I jump up, grab the pocket watch, and sprint back to my room.
To dream.
One more time.