Celestial Collision : The Awakening

The Premonition

I am standing on the roof of a very tall building, feeling the breeze tousle my hair as it whispers secrets only the wind knows. The city stretches out below me, a sea of glittering lights and shadowed streets, alive with possibilities. I'm wearing a blue dress with a V-neck, the fabric catching the light just so, making it shimmer as if woven with stardust. A white cardigan adorned with golden stars clings to my shoulders, a comforting weight against the chill in the air. On my feet are white sneakers, scuffed from many adventures, grounding me to this moment. My hair is tied up in a messy bun, strands escaping to dance in the wind.

Next to me stands a guy, solid and real amidst the surreal beauty of our surroundings. He wears a grey t-shirt that clings to his frame, and dark blue jeans that hang just right, paired incongruously with white shoes. We both stare into the sky, our gazes drawn upwards, captivated by something beyond our understanding, something cosmic that seems to vibrate in the very air around us.

Then it happens—a tremor, subtle at first, then more pronounced. The building sways slightly beneath our feet, a gentle rocking that sends my heart into my throat. We cling to each other instinctively, his arms enveloping me in a protective embrace, as if we're the only two people in this world. His presence is reassuring, a steadying force against the uncertainty of our perch. The shaking stops, leaving the air around us electric, charged with anticipation, as if the universe itself is holding its breath.

That's when I see it: the sun and the moon perfectly aligned, hanging in the sky like celestial eyes watching over us. Their light is mesmerizing, casting an ethereal glow that washes over everything, rendering the world in shades of silver and gold. The alignment feels significant, as though it holds the key to some ancient mystery waiting to be unraveled. My heart races with a mixture of awe and trepidation, a sense that we are on the cusp of something monumental.

"Sarah Seerstone!" My mother's voice cuts through the moment like a knife, calling from the kitchen with a tone that demands attention. It's a wake-up call, though I'm already wide awake, the dream lingering in my mind as I sit up in bed, staring into the void of my room. The familiar surroundings come into focus, but the vividness of the dream clings to me like a shadow.

The dream. The same recurring dream every full moon. My mother insists it's more than just a dream. According to her, we come from a long line of seers, people with the gift—or curse—of visions that are more than mere figments of the imagination. In our family, these dreams are said to be premonitions of the future, accurate predictors of events that have shaped our history. There are no written records of this, just stories passed down from my grandmother to my mother, and now to me. A family secret, she calls it, whispered from one generation to the next like a sacred trust.

Even if I dared to share this with someone, they'd surely laugh it off. In this modern world of reason and science, who would believe in magic? If magic does run in our bloodline, it's been dormant for centuries, waiting for the right moment to reawaken. As my grandmother often says, the power slumbers until the right conditions awaken it. Generations have tried and failed, leaving us to live ordinary lives, our magic a dormant seed in the garden of our souls.

I'm Sarah Seerstone, a 28-year-old woman standing just barely five feet tall with a petite frame that belies my strength. My long black hair is difficult to tame, often escaping its confines to frame my face in unruly waves. My brown eyes, dark and contemplative, often reflect my exhaustion, the weariness of someone who carries the weight of unseen worlds on her shoulders. I still live with my mother, Adaline, and my grandmother, Jeanie, in a small, cozy home filled with love and the echoes of our ancestors' secrets in a town named Luminara. My 9-to-5 job pays the bills, a necessary but unfulfilling routine that leaves little room for dreams. It's the weekend now, and I sigh with relief at the thought of a brief respite from the daily grind. My social life is almost nonexistent; the weekdays drain me of all energy, leaving me too tired for gatherings or frivolities.

"Sarah, are you up?" my mom calls again, a hint of impatience threading through her words, pulling me back to reality.

"Yes!" I yell back, dragging myself out of bed and heading to the shower. The water is hot and soothing as it cascades over me, washing away the remnants of sleep and dreams. I stand under the spray, letting the heat seep into my bones, pondering the dream and its significance. A part of me yearns for something extraordinary, something to break the monotony of my life and affirm the stories of my ancestors.

But for now, it's just another day, and I'm just another girl, going with the flow of life, caught between the mundane and the magical.