I look down at the man—the stranger who somehow isn't a stranger at all. His breathing has stabilized slightly, and the black lines aren't branching as fast. As if the shadows' departure slowed whatever corruption is eating at him.
I kneel beside him, really looking at him for the first time since dragging him inside. The drysuit is shredded beyond repair—long tears that look like claw marks, except nothing with claws could have made cuts that precise. His exposed skin shows more of those black veins, but they're not uniform. Some branch like lightning. Others spiral in geometric patterns that hurt to look at directly, as if my eyes can't quite process the angles.
I press two fingers to the pulse point at his throat, counting. One hundred and thirty beats per minute. Dangerously high. His skin radiates heat like an engine running too hot for too long.
"Who are you?" I whisper, even though he can't hear me. "And why have I been dreaming about you for six months?"
I grab my first aid kit, pulling out anything that might help. Antiseptic wipes—useless against dimensional corruption, probably, but better than nothing. Gauze and medical tape. A digital thermometer that reads 104.3 when I press it to his forehead. Fever reducer that I manage to get under his tongue, though I'm not sure he can swallow.
His eyes move beneath closed lids, rapid and frantic. REM sleep, maybe. Or his brain trying to process trauma that no human mind should have to hold.
I wet a cloth with water from my canteen and press it to his forehead, his neck, his chest where the drysuit has torn away. The corruption marks pulse under my touch, and I jerk back instinctively before forcing myself to try again. They're warm—warmer than his skin, as if whatever power is eating through him generates its own heat.
"Stay with me," I murmur, knowing it's ridiculous to talk to an unconscious man. "You came all this way. Through whatever hell that was. Don't give up now."
His lips part. I lean closer, thinking maybe he's trying to breathe easier, maybe the fever reducer is kicking in.
Then he speaks—just one word, barely audible, rough with pain and exhaustion and something that sounds like relief.
"Maren."
My name.
My hand jerks back like I've been burned. He's unconscious. Dying, maybe. Covered in corruption and torn through... whatever the hell that was. Some kind of barrier between here and somewhere else that shouldn't exist.
And he knows my name.
Not just knows it. Said it like he's been searching for me. Like finding me was the point of everything—the dimensional tear, the corruption eating through him, the shadows hunting him. Like I'm the reason he fought his way back through impossible barriers between worlds.
I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, questions piling up faster than I can process them. The shadows outside press against the cabin walls, patient and hungry. The dark veins pulse beneath his skin, slower now but still present. And somewhere in the forest, that shimmer continues to glow, marking the place where the unreal became tangible.
My hands shake as I reach for my camera. I need proof. Need evidence that I'm not having some elaborate breakdown, that eight months of chasing strange lights through the forest hasn't finally snapped something in my brain.
I scroll through the images I captured. The LCD screen shows them clearly—the tear in reality captured in perfect focus, the edges of it rippling like water. The figure stumbling through, caught mid-stride between there and here. The shadows takingform in the cabin, their impossible geometry frozen by my shutter speed.
Physical proof that I'm not hallucinating. That this is actually happening.
But it's the last image that catches my breath in my throat.
The moment he emerged from the tear, I'd accidentally zoomed in on his face. The image is sharp despite the chaos, perfectly focused. And in his eyes—even through the pain and the corruption—there's recognition. More than that. There's desperate hope. The look of someone who's been searching for something precious and finally, finally found it.
He was looking for me.
I zoom in further on the image, studying his expression. This isn't the face of a man surprised to see a stranger. This is someone who knows exactly who he expected to find. The set of his jaw, the way his eyes track toward where I must have been standing—it's all intentional. Purposeful.
Somehow, this stranger who knows my name was looking for me. Has been looking for me, maybe for as long as I've been dreaming about him.
Outside, the shadows circle closer. I can feel them pressing against the walls, testing the windows and door, searching for a way in. The frost on the windows thickens, spreading in patterns that look almost like reaching fingers.
Inside, the man from my dreams lies unconscious on my sleeping bag, his fever burning through him, corruption marks pulsing with each heartbeat. The tear is sealed—I think—but who knows for how long? Who knows what else might come through, drawn by whatever connection exists between us?
The morning light strengthens beyond the frosted windows, but it doesn't reach inside. The cold lingers, unnatural and patient. Waiting for me to make a choice.
I could leave. Hike back to town, bring help, let someone else deal with impossible shadow creatures and dimensional tears and unconscious men who speak my name. Let the authorities handle it—whatever authorities deal with things that shouldn't exist.
That would be the smart choice. The safe choice.
I set down my camera and pick up the Maglite again, keeping it ready. The weight of it is solid in my grip, reassuring. I rest my other hand on his burning forehead, feeling the fever rage beneath his skin. His pulse throbs against my palm—too fast still, but steady. Fighting.
