It began with the sound of water dripping.
Toren Vale opened his eyes in the blue half-light of dawn, his heart pounding as if it had run a race without him. His breath came shallow, hitching, then slowing as the dream retreated. But it didn't vanish—not this time. It left impressions.
A hallway with polished floors. Light flickering through glass that hummed as air passed through vents. Voices from a glowing square mounted to a wall. A "television," the voice in the dream said, like it expected him to understand.
He lay still, a woven blanket kicked halfway off his legs, and stared upward. Through a gap in the palm-woven ceiling, the early sky peered back—violet streaks chasing away stars. Still, some lingered. Pale and sharp and… known. He didn't know why, but one constellation in particular—a crooked arrow of five stars—felt too familiar, like he'd memorized it as a child.
Except he was a child.
A noise from outside—a metal pot clanking on stone—made him sit up. The hut's reed walls creaked softly as wind swept through the outer fringe of the jungle. Chickens—or something close enough to chickens—scratched in the dirt yard. Something moved past his door. But Toren didn't move. His fingers curled into the rough blanket, thoughts tumbling in slow, sticky loops.
The dream was different this time. Not just images. Feelings. Concepts. Things that made no sense.
"New York City," he whispered, testing the words aloud. His voice cracked. "...Traffic. Coffee. Netflix?" He squinted. "What's a Netflix?"
A sudden gust rattled the wall again, and he flinched.
The dream was fading, but not fast enough. He remembered being older, somehow. Another body. Another name? It was like trying to grab mist, but the flavor was there, sitting on the back of his tongue like smoke from a long-dead fire.
He stood, brushing his bare feet off on the hut floor. The packed dirt was cool. On the low wooden shelf beside his cot, a smooth chunk of crash metal—his favorite object—reflected the dim light. He picked it up, running his thumb along the etched edge. As far as he knew, it was part of the old wreck in the jungle.
He didn't know what the wreck was. Nobody really did.
People said it was a "star-boat" from before they were born. Others called it a grave. Jakel said it fell from the gods, like punishment. But Toren had always thought it looked too purposeful to be a punishment. It had symmetry. It had order. It had doors.
He tapped the metal to his forehead once, like a priest with a relic, and set it down.
"I'm not crazy," he told himself softly, and the words sounded like a lie.
Then, through the ceiling crack, something flickered across the sky. A sharp white line—too fast for a bird. Toren looked up just as it disappeared.
And the hairs on his arms rose.
He didn't know why, but he knew this:Today was different.