Before We Met

The dream always ended the same way: with the salt-spray of an ocean I'd never visited and the warmth of a hand I couldn't quite grasp. He never had a face-just a silhouette cut out of the moonlight-but his voice was a low rumble that vibrated in my chest.
"Find me," he'd whisper. "Before the clocks stop."
When I woke up, the silence of my apartment felt like a physical weight. I checked my pulse, my skin still buzzing from a touch that didn't exist. I told myself it was just stress. I told myself that "Thorne" was a name I'd probably seen on a billboard or a dusty law book.
But then I saw him.