Chapter 3 Whispers in the Dark

The first night she slept alone, the silence was unbearable.

Adrian had left early for an overseas meeting, his voice calm and reassuring as he told her he would only be gone for a few days. His absence should have brought relief, yet the penthouse felt heavier without him in it. The walls seemed to listen.

Elena stood by the window long after sunset, the city spread beneath her like a living map. Cars moved like fireflies along the streets, their motion hypnotic. The air hummed faintly through the half-open glass, brushing her skin with cool breath. It was peaceful, but the kind of peace that didn’t last.

When she finally lay down, exhaustion came quickly. Sleep crept over her like fog, and the sound of rain followed her into it.

Then came the flash.

Headlights.

A road slick with water.

A man’s voice shouting her name.

“Elena!”

Her eyes snapped open. Darkness wrapped around her, but her pulse thundered. For a second, she could still smell wet asphalt and smoke. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath. Just a dream, she told herself. Just a dream.

Yet something about that voice—it hadn’t been Adrian’s.

She turned on the bedside lamp, its warm light spilling over the sheets. The room looked ordinary again, too ordinary. Her reflection in the mirror across the room looked pale, almost ghostly. For a long moment, she just watched herself breathe, as if confirming she was real.

The door creaked softly. Elena froze.

“Marta?” she called.

No reply. Only the sound of the wind rattling faintly against the window. She swallowed and stepped out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the rug. Every shadow in the penthouse seemed deeper at night. The hallway light flickered when she switched it on, then steadied.

She checked the kitchen. Empty. The faint smell of coffee lingered from earlier. She let out a shaky laugh and rubbed her temples. “You’re fine,” she whispered. “You’re just tired.”

Still, she left the light on when she returned to bed.

By morning, she felt drained. Marta entered with breakfast, setting the tray gently on the small table beside her.

“You didn’t sleep?” the woman asked, glancing at her tired face.

“Nightmares,” Elena said, forcing a smile. “They’re getting worse.”

Marta’s brows drew together. “That happens after trauma. The mind tries to put pieces back together.”

Elena picked up the cup of tea but didn’t drink. “You’ve worked for us long, haven’t you?”

“Almost three years.”

“Then you must have known me well,” Elena said quietly. “Before.”

Marta hesitated. “You were kind,” she said finally. “Different from Mr. Cross.”

“How so?”

“You smiled more,” Marta said with a faint smile of her own. “But you also worked too much. You painted in that room near the balcony. You said it helped you think.”

Elena blinked. “I paint?”

“You used to,” Marta replied, lowering her eyes. “You stopped before the accident.”

“Why?”

Marta opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I don’t know, ma’am. Maybe you got busy.”

The answer sounded rehearsed. Elena let it go, though it stuck in her chest. When Marta left, she walked toward the balcony, following the memory like a scent.

The small studio was tucked behind glass doors. The moment she entered, a faint smell of old paint and turpentine met her. Dust covered the easel in the corner. The canvas resting on it was unfinished—a half-drawn face of a man, his features sketched with confident strokes. Only the eyes were missing, left blank.

Her stomach tightened. She reached out and touched the edge of the canvas. The lines felt familiar, but distant, like something she had learned in another life. “Who were you?” she whispered.

Behind her, a phone rang, sharp and sudden. She jumped, heart pounding, then hurried to the bedroom where Adrian’s phone was vibrating on the nightstand. The caller ID read Julian Cross.

Her pulse quickened again. She remembered the name. Adrian’s brother.

She hesitated, then answered.

“Elena?” The voice was warm, surprised. “I didn’t expect you to pick up.”

“Julian?” she said softly.

There was a pause, then a quiet laugh. “So you do remember me?”

“Not exactly,” she admitted. “Your name feels familiar, though.”

“I’m glad. Adrian said you were recovering. I wanted to stop by and see you, but he said it wasn’t a good time.”

Her brows drew together. “He said that?”

“Yes. He thought it might overwhelm you.” Julian’s voice softened. “But I’m glad to hear your voice. You sound stronger.”

She hesitated. “Would it be strange if I said I’d like to see you?”

He was silent for a moment. “Not strange at all. I’ll be careful. I promise not to bring too many questions.”

Something eased in her chest. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, voice low and sure. “Don’t tell Adrian yet. I’ll surprise him.”

The line clicked off. She stood there a moment longer, phone still pressed to her ear, unsure if she’d just made a mistake.

That night, the rain returned.

She sat in the living room with a book she couldn’t focus on. The lights from the city filtered through the tall windows, washing the space in silver and shadow. Her mind drifted back to the dream, the sound of the man’s voice shouting her name. It hadn’t been a stranger’s voice. It had been filled with something fierce—fear or love, she couldn’t tell.

When the front door clicked open, she startled. Adrian stepped in, rain still clinging to his coat. His smile appeared quickly, precise as always.

“You’re awake,” he said, setting down his keys. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“I couldn’t.” Her tone was sharper than she meant.

He studied her. “Nightmares again?”

“Yes.” She closed the book. “I keep hearing someone call me.”

“Probably a dream fragment,” he said easily, removing his coat. “Your mind is searching for connection.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it felt real.”

He walked closer and placed a kiss on her hair. “Everything will settle soon. Just give it time.”

She wanted to believe him, but the faint scent of another perfume on his collar made her chest tighten. It wasn’t hers.

The next afternoon, Julian arrived.

He entered with an easy smile, a bouquet of white tulips in hand. His eyes were a lighter shade of Adrian’s, his manner softer, unhurried. “You look better than Adrian made it sound,” he said.

“Did he?” she asked, taking the flowers. “He makes everything sound manageable.”

Julian chuckled. “That’s his specialty.”

They sat in the living room. The air between them felt oddly comfortable, as if they had shared a hundred conversations before this one. He asked about her recovery, her therapy, her sleep. When she mentioned the nightmares, his expression grew thoughtful.

“What do you see?” he asked gently.

“Lights. Rain. A voice calling me.”

He tilted his head. “A man’s voice?”

She nodded slowly.

Julian was quiet for a moment, then said, “You know, you used to talk about dreams a lot. You said they were windows to the parts of us we hide.”

The words stirred something deep in her. “Did I really?”

“You did.” He smiled faintly. “You were the only one who could make Adrian laugh. You used to tease him about being too serious.”

She frowned. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It was,” Julian said. “Before everything changed.”

“Before what?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

He hesitated. “Before the accident,” he said finally, his voice low. “Before Adrian became... different.”

A sound behind them made them both turn. Adrian stood by the doorway, expression calm but his eyes sharp. “I didn’t know you were visiting,” he said lightly.

Julian smiled. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

“You have,” Adrian replied, stepping closer. “Elena needs rest.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, but Adrian’s hand had already found her shoulder, gentle yet firm.

“Let’s not tire you out,” he said. “You’re still healing.”

Julian watched the exchange, something unreadable passing through his gaze. “I’ll come again,” he said finally. “If that’s alright.”

Elena nodded, though she could feel Adrian’s grip tighten slightly before he let go.

After Julian left, Adrian didn’t speak for a long time. He poured himself a drink, the ice clinking softly. She sat on the sofa, the silence between them thick.

“You didn’t tell me he was coming,” he said finally.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It does,” he said, his tone mild but edged. “You need calm, not confusion.”

“He said we used to laugh together,” she said quietly. “That I made you laugh.”

Adrian’s expression softened. “You did. You still can.”

“But he said you changed.”

He set the glass down. “People change when they almost lose someone they love.”

She looked at him, searching for truth. “Did you almost lose me, or did you lose something else?”

His jaw tightened. “I lost peace,” he said simply. “Now I’m trying to keep it.”

He stood and walked toward the balcony. “Get some rest, Elena. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

But that night, she didn’t sleep. The wind howled against the windows, and every time she closed her eyes, she saw flashes—water on glass, a hand reaching for hers, a voice shouting her name.

When she finally rose from bed and went to the balcony, the city lights glimmered like distant stars. In the reflection of the glass, she thought she saw a figure standing behind her, just out of reach. She turned quickly, but no one was there.

Still, her heart whispered a name she couldn’t fully remember.

And in that moment, she knew the dreams weren’t just dreams.

They were memories, waiting to wake.