DELONIX [COMPLETED]

1. The Entry

                      

HAS ANYONE EVER HAD A DREAM THAT FEELS MORE LIKE A MEMORY?

The kind that clings to you long after waking, leaving behind a strange sense of nostalgia for something you can’t quite grasp? The crazy catch is—I don’t have a single recollection of this memory.

That’s me right now.

The dream is always the same. It starts with me—except younger, maybe eight or nine—playing outside in the grass. The sun is warm, the breeze is soft, and there’s a comforting scent in the air, something sweet and familiar. But the place itself? I don’t recognize it. It doesn’t feel like anywhere I’ve been before, yet somehow, I know it’s right. Like I belong there.

"Red! Be careful!"

A voice. Gentle, feminine, filled with warmth. I barely register the caution, too busy rolling in the grass, giggling as the blades tickle my skin. My fingers dig into the dirt, and I revel in the sensation—until suddenly, pain shoots through my forehead.

"Ouch!" I cry, bringing a hand to my head. Tears well in my eyes as I look up, confused. There are no trees in our backyard, so what did I—

“No, there isn’t,” a voice speaks beside me.

I whip around, startled. Standing there is a boy, older than me, maybe seventeen or eighteen. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t read—part amusement, part curiosity. He doesn’t look familiar, but something about him makes my stomach twist, like I should know him.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice small.

Silence stretches between us. He doesn’t answer, just reaches out and gently presses his fingers to my forehead, right where I hit it. His touch is light, but it sends a shiver down my spine.

"You hit your head on my back," he finally says, his tone soft and relaxing to listen to. "Are you perhaps hurt?

But I don’t care about that. I care about his eyes—soft, a shade of blue so clear and bright it reminds me of the sky just before night falls. Blue. My favorite color.

"Mine’s green," he murmurs, almost to himself, before adding, "I mean, that’s my favorite color."

A weird sense of dread creeps over me. Did I say that out loud?

"No, you didn’t," he says, lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.

My breath catches. "How are you doing that? Are you a witch?"

That actually makes him laugh—a low, warm sound. "I’m no witch, Little Red."

"Little?" I bristle. "For your information, mister, I turn nine today!"

Another chuckle, soft and amused. My irritation fizzles out as quickly as it came, and I hate how easy it is for him to disarm me.

"What’s your name?" I ask.

He opens his mouth to answer—but then, everything fades. His voice drowns in static. His figure flickers. I try to hold on, try to stay—

Splash!

I gasp, jerking awake as cold water drenches me. My heart slams against my ribs, my mind scrambling to piece together what’s real and what isn’t. Laughter fills the room, and I blink up at the culprit—Aunt May, standing over me with an empty jug and a wicked grin.

“What the hell, Aunt!” I splutter, shaking water from my hair.

"Quit your whining and get ready, young lady. It's your first day of college." She yanks the blanket off me for good measure.