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She found herself in small cottage, cozy. She sat on an old, worn-out sofa, its fabric faded a dusty, reddish taupe, with rags at the seams. There was the faint smell of wood and earth in the air. From the window, she could see the distant green hills and the shimmer of the sea. Lambs grazed near the edge of the field, their small bodies dotting the landscape like fragmented pieces of a cloud. The sun barely skimmed the room, but it was warm, and there was a quiet peace to it.
The boy with messy brown hair was sitting on the floor, his clothes baggy and frayed, pulling with his fingers at something. The blonde girl stood by the window. Her brown eyes scanned out the view while her ivory dress fluttered loosely, clutching onto her thin frame. They spoke in hushed tones, too quiet for her to hear. Every now and then, there was a short mumble, a murmur with a subtle Irish accent—though she couldn't make out the words. Something about it felt oddly comforting.
She sat there, listening but hearing nothing. The air was heavy; time moved slowly, and it was all so safe. Still. That silent, still quiet, where the world outside couldn't find them. Safe.
Then the door exploded inward, just like it always did. The noise was sharp and jagged, and then it was chaos. Wood splintered, scattering shards of oak across the timber floor. The snapping of the air with two deafening shots boomed loudly. She froze, her heart racing, her breath caught in her chest. She crashed hard onto the ground, the rough wood scraping her skin. Hands grasped at her, jerking her upward and pulling her away, dragging her through the darkening room. Their faces were foreign, the space around her twisting and turning, but everything felt so far away, far far—
And then, just as quickly as it had started, the noise stopped, and everything was dark.
Florence gasped, her heart pounding in her chest. The air in her room felt thick, like she couldn't catch her breath. She wiped cold sweat from her brow, disoriented, a lump clinging to her throat. These dreams had been persisting for weeks now, yet each time she woke, the details slipped through her fingers like so much sand. There were a few words she remembered-something said in a language she couldn't place, mixed with another she couldn't quite distinguish. Everything was so vague, and she couldn't remember, no matter how hard she tried.
She stayed in bed for a moment, gazing up at the ceiling. she felt unusually tired, and it made her want to just close her eyes and drift off again. But eventually, she sighed and swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor sending a little jolt through her feet.
Florence caught her reflection in the mirror across the room and frowned. Her hair was a mess, curls sticking out in every direction like they were Medusa's snakes—writhing around her head. She dragged herself over to the mirror and stared at it properly, her fingers tugging at a knot near the front. She hated how wild her hair looked most of the time, but it reminded her of the sea—waves crashing and sweeping. Florence didn't know why she so often thought of the sea. She rested her hand on the edge of the mirror for a moment, wishing she could just punch it and never have to see her miserable face again. She did have some rationale though, it wouldn't be a very good idea to get rid of the only thing she could check her appearance in.
