The dreams come like fevers. She feels lost in them, chased by a shadow until she's stuck in a corner and it's hanging over her, long fingers reaching into her head. And she can't scream, can't cry out for help, just stare up at the shadow with wide-eyes.

Then all she can hear is the whispers: sweet, sad things. She doesn't know if it's her voice or another's.

She wakes up restless, shaking and her head aches. She never understands where the books and notepads come from. She's almost scared to touch them because they're so beautiful. But she manages to use them in the end, she reads the books, writes in the notebooks: of the dreams, of her loneliness, of her illnesses, the beginnings of letters to her brother she'll never send.

Her Calling's acting up this time and the sickness that plagues her wakes her up in the middle of the night. She stares wide-eyed in the gloom, sinking back into her pillows.

"Am I dreaming?" she whispers, "Is this real?"