“In every petal, You are there,” he heard her singing.

  Judging by the sound, she must be no more than ten yards away now, just across the wall of mists he was facing. No tunnels led toward her. But after a moment of staring vainly at the mirk, he noticed part of it thinning to a gauzelike wispiness. On the other side, he could see a girl’s figure and the redness of her hair.

  “In every vein of every leaf,” came the girl’s voice.

  It was clear now that this was a different sort of dream. When he’d tried touching those mists earlier, he’d reeled back lightheaded, and the world had gone mottled red-black, like when you stand too quickly and verge on fainting. He’d tried to move the mists by reimagining them elsewhere, but unlike every other object he’d encountered while visiting dreams, they’d refused to budge. What were those mists?

  The thought of jumping through them seemed feckless at best. This was, after all, just an observational visit. But he saw no other way of reaching that strange and Siren-like voice—indeed, that almost familiar voice—and the mists did seem unusually thin here.

  After an instant’s deliberation, he decided to take the chance. He darted toward the mists and leapt, closing his eyes.

  As he crossed the wispy whiteness, a giddy daze swept over him, despite the fact he was holding his breath. It felt like he’d been launched tumbling through the air. As a result, he lost his bearings and stumbled to his hands and knees on the other side of the mists.

  But even as he did so, he found himself smiling. And not just at the familiar sight of the red-haired girl in a gossamer green tunic, looking over in startlement, whom he hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

  Proto remembered. He’d crossed into the Mists, and, just like all the previous times, his missing memories instantly had returned.

  One of those memories was a plan to save the future. And to do so, he’d have to save her.

  “You . . . ” She squinted at him. Her green gaze had the blazing sheen of starlight.

  The plan was one he’d formulated long ago—before he’d come to Somnus’ Palace and become a provisional visitor, before his many adventures here had begun. But the memory of that plan rushed back as fresh as if he’d thought it up just now.

  And he remembered more too. He remembered his last week in the breathing world—his time as a seer for Flua-Sahng, when he’d practiced visiting this dream each night. Mercune’s dream.

  Strangest of all, he recalled the original time he’d spent at Somnus’ Palace. It was like recalling a second live performance of the same song. Of course, for music, encountering two variants of the same thing was normal and pleasant. But for life itself, it was beyond odd.

  All this meant Proto’s new life at Somnus’ Palace was, in fact, not quite as new as he’d thought five minutes ago. And yet it felt new. When Astrid swatted his head, and Lilac flicked his ear, and Dahlia banged him with her book, the unexpectedness made it all the more stingingly pleasant.

  Maybe his second time at Somnus’ Palace felt new because, in part, it was new and different from the first time—though mostly in small, subtle ways. As Proto reviewed and compared his memories, a few such differences instantly stood out.

  For example, this time around, he rarely needed Somnus or Lilac to tell him what drinks to order. Rather than getting insults to his taste, he got approving nods. This time around, Dahlia’s books were sometimes different from the original timeline. Originally, she’d been reading Anne Bronte, but this time, she was reading Emily Bronte. And, somehow or other, he found himself playing wild rummy with Astrid much earlier than last time, and without needing a refresher on the rules. Indeed, he even beat her once or twice.

  Maybe this time, Proto wasn’t quite the same Proto either. To be sure, when he was among his friends at Somnus’ Palace, he didn’t know this was his second time as a provisional visitor. He didn’t have those memories. But was their absence imprinted in his surrounding emotions, like the fossil of a lively thing past? If so, that would explain why, from time to time, he felt like he’d been molded for precisely this place.

  All this to say, when Proto’s memories came rushing back amid the Mists, it was disconcerting. But it also felt like the missing half of a puzzle had just been filled in. Now, finally, he got the picture. He faced the star-bespangled blue of Heaven, the corner of his lips curved confidently upward, and nodded. He was ready.

  He had a plan.

  During his last week in the breathing world, he’d learnt that Mercune faced a key choice in life—whether to be a seer or a doer. Evidently, her babysitter Ausrine had told her something at a young age that inclined her toward being a doer. But the world’s future hung upon Mercune becoming a seer.

  So, he’d searched for a way to change her mind. He’d studied her past, talked to her friends, striven to understand her character, and tried to grasp what made her who she was today. On his last practice visit to Mercune’s dream, he’d succeeded. She’d finally chosen to be a seer instead of a doer.

  But the future hadn’t changed. It turned out that, to change the future, Mercune being a seer was necessary but not sufficient. This was a two-ingredient recipe, and one was still missing.

  The question was, what was missing?

  Proto had thought hard about this on his last day in the breathing world, while he was eating his quadruple smash burger and walking through the Arb. And he’d had an insight.

  If Mercune had to be a seer, that suggested she eventually had to foresee something. But if she didn’t have a chance to do so, then it wouldn’t matter if she were a seer or a doer, or, for that matter, a ferrygirl or a fairy girl. She had to survive long enough to make her prophecy.

  Mercune had shown him all the ways she was likely to die, back when they’d played Truth or Dare. Sometimes, she’d died during the Elements’ fiery rampage, sometimes a bit later—explosions, mobs, collapses, and so forth. Each time she’d died, he’d watched her image fade and get more ghostly. Yet when she’d suffered her last death, he’d thought he’d seen the faintest trace of her spectral image, still lingering semilucent.

  Did that mean that, in some potential chain of events, Mercune wouldn’t die? Did it mean that, on some narrow, out-of-the-way Fate Road, she could circumvent death?

  Proto had to trust that this was the case. You might as well believe you’re not screwed, because if you are, you’re screwed either way.

  Ugh, came the voice of Miss Beatrice. Thank Heavens I wasn’t your philosophy teacher, or I’d blame myself for this travestied Pascalism you’ve made into your motto.

  As long as we’re on the topic of being screwed, began Somnus-Proto Lawyer.

  Oh, don’t even! Miss Beatrice scolded.

  I was just going to talk about this poor young man’s plight! protested Somnus-Proto Lawyer.

  I’m going to miss you two, mused Proto.

  Miss us? You’re stuck with us, Young Man! retorted Miss Beatrice. We’ll be with you through thick and thin.

  Though, for certain winsome educators, the apter phrase might be, through thin and thicc, replied Somnus-Proto Lawyer.

  What, my figure—is that supposed to be charming?! Are you even trying! admonished Proto’s fifth-grade teacher.

  Anyway, Proto had decided he had to figure out how to avert the thousand possible deaths of Mercune. So, he’d studied them, replaying them in his memory during his months wandering the red-brown wastes amid the Mists. He’d cringed at every gruesome end, wanting to avert his mind’s eye. But for the future’s sake, and her sake, he couldn’t.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Eventually, he’d figured something out. At first glance, it had seemed random, even trivial. But it was the only thing uniting all the deaths. And the more he’d thought about it, the more significant it’d seemed:

  None of Mercune’s potential deaths occurred underground.

  Everywhere else? Absolutely. Outside, inside, on high floors and low floors, in cities and in the countryside, in natural and manmade disasters, by fist and claw, brick and stone. But never underground.

  In contrast, a few deaths had involved her emerging from the underground. He remembered one of them clearly: Her image climbed a staircase, emerged into the daylight, went wide-eyed—and then was set upon by three cackling men.

  Recalling that scene, he’d blackly mused that if Mercune had watched as many zombie apocalypse movies as he had, she wisely might’ve stayed safe in her underground shelter.

  Then, a little giddily, he’d thought: Why not? Maybe that’s the key! Just stay in the underground shelter! Maybe Fate’s just in a zombie-movie mood!

  Maybe those were the two necessary ingredients: Mercune had to be a seer, and Mercune had to stay safely underground long enough to make her prophecy. Fyrir had mentioned something about underground levels at the Wraithing Research Center. The more he’d thought about it, the more plausible this had seemed.

  Or maybe this was just a stupidly random idea from a guy who’d been cooped up with his own thoughts for way too long, and it was pure chance that none of Mercune’s deaths had been underground.

  “‘Chance,’ Proto? I don’t know any Chance, do you? Sounds like a dog’s name, frankly.” The voice of Flua-Sahng echoed through his memory.

  That’s the spirit! he mentally replied.

  Don’t add me to inner voices you talk to, Proto, replied the Queen of Heaven. You have enough voices to worry me already.

  In any event, he’d spent well over a year pondering this, and this was what he’d come up with, and this was what he was going to do.

  Mercune’s freckle-dusted face curved up into a smile. “Hello there.”

  “Top of the morning to you,” he replied.

  She wrinkled her nose and smiled, gesturing at the black sky. “What?”

  Proto had considered trying to replay this dream exactly the way he’d first had it, back at Somnus’ Palace, with only one or two key changes. But why? He’d done a week of practice runs, he’d learnt what worked and what didn’t work, and he’d seen what mattered and didn’t matter. He’d let his heart lead him along from moment to moment. And, by week’s end, he’d felt he was connecting with her much more.

  “I’ve always wanted to say that,” he replied. “Also, we’re technically in the a.m. hours, right?”

  Mercune’s brow arched above her green gaze. “You’re really different.”

  “I love it when people tell me that within thirty seconds of meeting me,” said Proto.

  Mercune failed to suppress a grin. “As you should. But I mean you’re different from the others who come here.”

  “Other dream visitors from Somnus, you mean,” he nodded.

  Mercune tilted her head. “You’re really not gonna hide it, are you? I thought you guys had to.”

  “I do my dreamstalking openly and notoriously,” said Proto.

  Mercune laughed. “Well. Okay then! Come along. My name’s—"

  “Yeah, Mercune, I know,” he waved.

  “Stalker!” she cried, planting her hands on her hips.

  “Stalker, dreamstalker, sleepwalker, tell me what I don’t already know,” he said.

  Mercune wrinkled her nose and laughed again.

  Then, she looked at him more closely. “Do I know you? I can’t help feeling . . . hm.”

  “Do you?” Proto had learnt well, by now, not to be dishonest with Mercune. Much better to dodge her questions altogether.

  “Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t have asked.” She gave him a teenage eyeroll. “But somehow, I feel sure the answer’s yes!”

  “Maybe you’ll remember while we walk and talk?” he suggested.

  “Oh? Is that what we’ll be doing?” she questioned. “And where will we be going, Sir?”

  Proto waved and paved their way with a yellow brick road, glimmering with the glow of distant stars. He started off along the road. “Better hurry, or you’ll be late for your meeting. Here, clear these mists for me, will you?” He pointed ahead.

  “My meeting—? Clear the—?” Mercune blinked and shook her head. “Who are you?”

  “Proto. Nice to meet you, Mercune,” he said.

  “Meet me? You seem to know more about me than myself!” she declared.

  “Oh, my job requires it,” he said. Technically, this was true. You just had to understand that his job was saving the future.

  Mercune squinted at him. “I can’t help feeling that I know more about you too!”

  Proto shrugged. “I’m just a guy in a tracksuit who’s always forgetting things.”

  “Welp, not as much as I’m forgetting, apparently!” she observed. “Since I can’t remember anything about you, but you know everything about me.”

  “Not everything,” he replied. “I don’t know your favorite fantasy monster.”

  Proto had spent weeks planning this line of discussion, while wandering alone across those misty wastes. He’d thought through all the ways this talk could go. And he’d concluded that if he wanted to bring up living underground, he’d have the best shot of doing so in a natural and convincing way by discussing this topic—favorite fantasy monsters.

  “My favorite . . . ” Mercune shook her head. “Okay, I take it back. You’re not just different from Somnus’ other visitors. You’re different, period.”

  “Takes one to know one!” shrugged Proto.

  “Fair. I have been called Oddball, every now and again,” she concurred. “Oddball, Redhead, Bedhead. I wear them all as badges of honor!”

  “You forgot to wear them today. Here.” With a wave of his hand, Proto added the words Oddball, Redhead and Bedhead on neatly embroidered badges upon Mercune’s tunic. “Your badges of honor.”

  “Oh, silly me. Like I said, forgetful!” Mercune patted her badges. “What ever would I do without you?”

  Proto nodded agreeably. “Speaking of things you forgot, my question . . . ?”

  “Right, monsters!” she said, snapping her fingers. “Hm. Is this a serious question? Or is it just—what’s it called—‘game’? Did you read about this on some forum, Proto? Was this a good question to ‘lead’ with? Is this how all the players are ‘playing’ these days?”

  “I play life like a video game.” Proto conjured a pair of Duke Nukem sunglasses and slipped them on.

  “Take those off this instant!” laughed Mercune. She grabbed them and threw them away. “‘Play life like a video game.’ Sheesh, you’re more Gen Z than me, and I was born after Y2K!”

  “Anyway, hmm.” She touched her chin thoughtfully. “My favorite monsters are all those foresty, watery ones that get a bad rap unfairly. Like dryads and naiads. Maybe sirens too. Maybe they’re monsters. But if so, I’m on the monster side!”

  This was one of many possible replies that Proto had prepared for. “What about, say, gremlins?” he suggested.

  She frowned. “Gremlins? Come on!”

  “No? Not into cute little cave critters?” he pressed.

  “Cute little—ugh!” She wrinkled her nose. “Does this bright-eyed woodland maiden standing before you look like she’s into cave critters? Or caves? Or the underground? I don’t even like basements, Proto!”

  Proto suppressed a wince. This might be harder than he’d hoped.

  “As a rule,” she went on, “I like sunlight, starlight, and greenery, preferably two of three. At least. And that’s how I like my monsters too.”

  “Green? Like gremlins?” he suggested.

  “No! You’re getting mixed up, Proto.”

  Proto laughed quietly.

  Her lips curved up too. “But yeah, I’m gonna miss that in Dubai. You know, the outdoors. Me and my freckle face—we don’t mix well with that sort of place.”

  “By the way,” she continued, “I would explain that I’m moving to Dubai with the famous scientist Fyrir. But I’m sure there’s no need, Dreamstalker.” She arched her eyebrows and widened her eyes.

  “It won’t be so bad,” smiled Proto. “I like Wraithing Research Center. It’s futuristic. Somewhere between Star Trek and a Tesla car interior.”

  “Sheesh! Even I haven’t seen the inside yet,” she replied. “You know more about me than myself. You’re like the CIA of dreamstalkers!”

  Proto conjured the shades again and started putting them on, but she casually batted them out of his hand, and they went flying.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “yes, Gramps says my room in Dubai will be underground. Gonna be spending all my time underground. Gonna go gremlin myself, maybe, with all the time I’ll be underground!”

  Proto felt like a fisherman who’d thrown his hook, spent an afternoon waiting futilely in the sun, grimly started to reel in his line, and then abruptly, finally, gotten a bite. This was some luck.

  Luck, Fate, or . . .

  He forced himself to focus. “Some underground-type monsters aren’t so bad, right? Like . . . dark elves. Or ghosts!”

  “Yep! A ghost. That’s what I’ll be,” declared Mercune. “Just chilling underground, year after year, doing nothing but bothering people. Literally pale as ghost.” She held out her freckled arm and shook her head sadly at it.

  “Actually, no—pale as a wraith! At Wraithing Research Center!” She giggled. “Yes. I’ll be a wraith. That’s my answer to your question.”

  “Good answer,” said Proto. “I like wraiths. Very underrated monster. Underused.”

  “Right? You guys got vampires and werewolves. Remember when they were underused? My generation still needs its monsters,” she said.

  Proto nodded and gestured toward her. “Ghosts and wraiths.”

  “Yes! It’ll be the new Twilight,” she affirmed. “A strapping ghost and a dashing wraith compete for the affections of a teenage girl. Who will win? Are you on Team Ghost or Team Wraith?”

  Proto held a hand toward her. “And what a prize to win! She’s red-haired, modest, quick as a fox on a motorcycle, and paler than either of her ghostly suitors.”

  “Yes!” cried Mercune. “That, or she has an expressionless face, dull affect, basic sentiments, a selfish outlook, a name that means ‘beauty,’ and a run-of-the-mill personality that says, ‘If even I can be powerful and beloved by all, why not you too, Miss Member of the Silent Majority?’”

  Proto laughed. “And she’s an astute and sophisticated film critic!”

  “Astute and sophisticated, yes,” yawned Mercune. “Which is why I continue to have Frozen-watching parties in my late teens.”

  “So, I guess I haven’t answered your question,” he said.

  “What? Oh, Team Ghost or Team Wraith. Right,” she nodded. “Are you on the beefy and barechested team? Or the robed and elegant team with nice faces?”

  Proto looked himself over. “Um.”

  Mercune snapped her fingers, and mists swirled about him. “Done. I’ve decided for you.”