Unwritten Constellation

The dream always starts the same. Cold wind rushes over my flesh. Rain scent is present in the air, although the sky is impossibly blue. And I know-I know-that I am not alone. I am standing on the edge of an enormous lake, its black waters rippling like oil. The silence presses into my ribs, hard and weighty. My chest tightens with something unnamed, something that is horribly close to homesickness. And I see him. He stands at the water's edge, his back to me, shoulders knotted. My stomach churns. I know him. I shouldn't, but I do.

The sight of him stirs something deep within my bones, something ancient, something forgotten. I try to speak, but my throat is raw, as if I screamed in a past life. Nothing comes out. He slowly turns his head. Enough for me to catch the curve of his jaw, the shape of his eyes-dark, unreadable, familiar. The moment our eyes meet, something within me breaks. A piercing pain unfurls in my chest, suffocating, merciless. Then the world breaks. A cracking sound, as if ice shattering beneath one's feet. The sky tears in two, the stars bleeding into ribbons of silver. The earth shakes beneath me. I reach for him. But I am already falling. I wake with a gasp. The room is dark, the wooden beams of the ceiling blurring as I gasp in air. My pulse thuds like a war drum, my nightdress clinging to my wet skin. My fingers flex, reaching to grasp something-someone-who isn't there. I press hands to face. It was just a dream. Just a dream, but... it doesn't feel like one. It never does. The hurt in my chest still. The ghost of his eyes, his face, his name-all there, hovering at the edge of my mind, just out of reach. I grasp for it, cling to anything before it slips away. But, as always, it eludes me. I don't know who he is. I don't know why I keep dreaming of him. But I do know this: I am out of time. Sunlight filters through the shutters, illuminating the wooden floor in a mosaic of gold. I sit at the edge of my bed, rubbing sleep from my eyes, but the weight of the dream hangs around me like a cloud. Lyra. My name is small in the wake of whatever this was-whatever is happening to me. I shake off the feeling and go through morning motions-washing my face, braiding my hair, and putting on my worn tunic and cloak. Everything is as normal, but I know otherwise. Something is coming. And I need answers. The streets of Halewick already hum with the thrum of morning. Vendors shout their wares, the scent of fresh bread and roasting nuts thick in the air. Horses clip the cobblestone streets, and children dance amidst stalls, their laughter above the din. I draw my hood around me as I push through the throng, my fingers curling around the edge of my cloak. The dream stays with me still, a murmur on the edges of awareness. Something comes near. I do not know why I sense it-only that I do. And I need to know. The house of the old man is located at the rear of the village, partially hidden by climbing ivy. Eadric has lived there longest. They say he recalls things that most have forgotten. I retreat back at the door. If anyone's going to explain to me why these dreams are so much more like memories, then it's him. But before I can knock, the door opens. "Enter, child." His voice is rough, like rough bark, but there's a warmth to it. I step in, and the scent of dry herbs and parchment fills my lungs. Shelves against the walls hold books and artifacts from years gone by. There's a fire crackling in the fire pit, but the air still feels cold. Eadric looks at me steadily as I lower my hood. "You had another dream." It's not a question. I nod, swallowing past the constriction in my throat. "They're getting worse." He waves at me to sit, but his piercing eyes don't drop from mine for an instant. "Tell me." I swallow. I never talk about it, the details of it, anyway. The dreams have seemed too intimate, too weird-a secret that shouldn't be told. But Eadric sits, his patience unwavering. So I do. About the lake, the quiet, the way I recognize the man standing at the water's edge. About the way my chest hurts when I look at him, as if something within me is shattering and being reassembled all at once. And about the name-the name I can never quite recall when I wake. When I finish, Eadric sits in silence for a very long time. His face is inscrutable, but there is something in his eyes-a flicker of recognition, or maybe something worse. He exhales slowly. "And the fracture?" A chill runs down my spine. "It's getting worse." He nods, to himself. "Then we don't have much time." The words cause me to shiver. "Time for what?" Eadric leans across the table, his voice low. "For you to remember.". Something inside me twitches. "Remember what?" He regards me, as if measuring how much I can handle being told. And then he stands up wordlessly and moves to the farthest shelf. His fingers glide along the leather, worn spines of the books before he comes to a stop on one. He takes it out and places it between us on the table. The cover is black, the seams tarnished by age. Elaborate symbols are etched into the spine-symbols I don't recognize. I study it, a queasy feeling in my stomach. "What is this?" "A history of what was," he answers. "And what should never have been forgotten." His voice is gentle. Cautious. As if he knows that, once I open this book, there's no turning back. I reach for it anyway. The moment my fingers make contact with the cracked leather, a sudden shock runs through me. A shiver down my bones, a whisper at the back of my head. My breath halts. The room whirls. I hold onto the table, my heart pounding against my ribcage. The room flashes-only for a second. The firelight flickers, the walls draw back, and then- A name. Not just a name-his name. It crashes into me like a wave, cold and unforgiving. Kairos. My heart jumps. The dream comes flooding back in terrifying clarity. The oppressive weight of his gaze. The feeling of my chest as though I'd lost something irretrievable. The crash of the world exploding on either side of me. I know this name. I shouldn't, but I do. My fist tightens around the book. "Who is he?" Eadric looks at me, his face shadowed in the dancing firelight. His voice is serious when he speaks. "He is the other half of your soul." The room shifts around us. The fire spits, casting long shadows on the walls. A sudden stinging wells up in my chest, an old and hurting pain. I shake my head. "That can't be possible." Eadric just sighs. "It's not just possible, Lyra. It's already happening." The weight of his words hangs over me like a storm. I gaze down at the book, my heart a steady drumbeat within my ears. Deep within me, I already know- This is only the start.