Mike stared at his reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the man looking back at him. His once-vibrant brown eyes were now sunken, shadowed by dark circles that no amount of sleep could fix. His skin had taken on a pallid, almost waxy tone—like parchment stretched too thin over bone. The bald cap covering his patchy, thinning hair only made him look more like a stranger in his own body.

  Chemotherapy is supposed to save me, he thought bitterly. So why does it feel like it’s killing me first?

  Every day was a battle. Some mornings, the fatigue was so heavy he could barely lift his head from the pillow. Other days, the bone-deep aches made even breathing an effort. And then there were the worst moments—the ones where the pain and exhaustion blurred together, and the quiet, treacherous thought slithered in: Maybe it would be easier if I just let go.

  But then he’d think of Trish, her stubborn refusal to let him wallow in self-pity. He’d think of the guys at the microbrewery, still holding down the fort, still texting him dumb memes and insisting he’d be back on his feet soon. They hadn’t given up on him. So he couldn’t give up either.

  A sharp knock at the front door snapped him out of his thoughts.

  Mike sighed, running a trembling hand over his face before shuffling out of the bathroom. He grabbed a hoodie from the couch, pulling it on to hide the hospital bracelet still looped around his wrist. Presentable? Not even close. But it was the best he could do.

  When he peered through the peephole, his breath caught.

  Steve?

  The estate agent stood on his doorstep, crisp in his usual suit and tie, looking every bit the polished professional Mike remembered from years ago—back when they’d first met under much darker circumstances. After the sickness. After the funeral arrangements. After the paperwork that had made him the sole heir to a life he’d never wanted to inherit.

  Mike yanked the door open before Steve could knock again.

  "Steve," he croaked, voice rough from disuse. "Why are you here?"

  For a split second, Steve’s carefully composed mask slipped. His eyes widened slightly, his mouth parting in something between shock and pity. He recovered quickly, but not fast enough. Mike knew exactly what he was seeing—the gaunt cheeks, the hollowed-out look of someone fighting a war inside their own body.

  Steve cleared his throat. "Mike, there’s something important I need to discuss with you. Can I come in?"

  Mike hesitated. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good. Steve didn’t make house calls for small talk.

  But then again, what did he have to lose?

  "Yeah," he muttered, stepping aside. "Sure. Come in."

  Mike gestured toward the worn sofa in his cramped living room, the same one Trish had picked out years ago because it was "cozy, not depressing bachelor-pad cheap." Steve sat carefully, his polished shoes sinking slightly into the shag carpet, while Mike lowered himself into the facing loveseat with the cautious movements of a man whose bones ached with every shift.

  Steve waited, watching Mike settle—making sure he was steady—before folding his hands together, his knuckles whitening with the pressure. The silence stretched a beat too long.

  "I see you've been going through a lot," Steve finally said, his voice softer than Mike had ever heard it.

  Mike let out a hoarse chuckle, the sound scraping against his throat. "Looking like a zombie didn’t give it away?" He tried to smirk, but the effort felt hollow.

  Steve didn’t laugh. Instead, his expression tightened. "Yeah, I heard about the chemotherapy. Figured that was why it’s been so hard to get ahold of you."

  Mike rubbed his temple, where a dull throb had taken up permanent residence. "Sorry about that. Trish—" His voice caught on her name. "She said I was just doomscrolling myself into a worse mood. Told me to turn the damn phone off and focus on getting better. So I did."

  Steve nodded slowly, but something in his posture shifted—a tension in his shoulders, a hesitation in his breath.

  Mike frowned. "What?"

  Steve exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening further. "I take it you haven’t heard the news, then."

  A cold prickle ran down Mike’s spine. "No. Why? Did something happen?"

  Another pause. Steve’s jaw worked, his eyes darting away for a fraction of a second—like he was debating whether this was his place to say. Whether Mike could even handle it.

  Then, with the weight of a judge delivering a sentence, Steve spoke.

  "The Yeasty Beast. The microbrewery you worked at… it’s gone."

  The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

  Mike blinked. "Excuse me?"

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  Steve’s voice turned grim. "Gas leak. The fire department thinks someone turned on a stove, didn’t realize the line had ruptured. When the ignition hit—" He mimed an explosion with his hands, fingers splaying outward. "The whole place went up in seconds. Everyone inside… they didn’t make it out."

  For a heartbeat, Mike didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

  His chest caved in, a visceral, physical pain tearing through him. His hands shook, his vision blurring at the edges. The room tilted—or maybe that was just him, swaying where he sat.

  No. No, no, no—

  They were supposed to be there when he got better. They were supposed to welcome him back with shitty jokes and a cold pint of whatever experimental brew they’d cooked up without him. They were supposed to—

  A sound escaped him, something between a gasp and a sob.

  Steve leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. "Mike…"

  Mike gripped the arms of the loveseat, his knuckles turning bone-white as he fought to steady himself. His throat burned with the effort of holding back the tears threatening to spill over, but he couldn’t break. Not yet. Not until he understood.

  Steve hesitated, then pressed on. "I’m actually here about Trish. The will she made—you’re named to receive her estate. I just need your signature to—"

  "Wait." Mike’s voice cracked, sharp and desperate. "Wait, wait, wait. Why are you talking about Trish?"

  The question hung between them, trembling in the air like the last note of a funeral bell.

  Steve swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. For the first time since Mike had known him, the unflappable estate agent looked uncertain. Almost afraid.

  Then, quietly, he said the words that shattered what was left of Mike’s world.

  "Because Trish was there, Mike. In the brewery. When it went up in flames."

  For a heartbeat, there was silence.

  Then—

  The dam broke.

  A ragged, wounded sound tore from Mike’s chest as the tears came—hot and relentless, streaming down his hollowed cheeks. His breath hitched, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief.

  Trish.

  His best friend. His anchor. The one who had dragged him out of bed on his worst days, who had smuggled in contraband snacks during chemo sessions, who had never once let him drown in his own despair.

  Gone.

  Just like that.

  And the cruelest part? He hadn’t even been there. He hadn’t known. He’d been sitting in this apartment, wallowing in self-pity, while she—

  His stomach lurched. Bile rose in his throat.

  The world spun, tilting on its axis.

  Because the world had ended.

  And he was still standing in the wreckage.

  The dream unraveled at the edges—walls melting into liquid shadow, colors bleeding into the void. Steve’s form flickered, his expression frozen in that same awful moment of pity before he dissolved like smoke. The air itself seemed to pull apart, threads of reality unwinding, leaving Mike standing alone in the crumbling remains of his grief.

  Tears still streaked his face as he turned toward the shelf. The photos on top there were the last solid things left, glowing faintly against the encroaching dark.

  The first was a relic from a lost time—Mike and Sara as kids, squished between their parents on some long-ago vacation. Their mother’s arms wrapped around them both; their father’s laugh forever frozen mid-boast about his "two champion troublemakers." A lifetime ago. A family gone.

  The second was Trish. Of course it was Trish. Her arm slung around his neck, pulling him into the frame mid-laugh, her nose scrunched in that way it did when she was pretending to be annoyed with him. "Smile, dumbass," she’d ordered, right before the shutter clicked.

  The third was the crew—the whole damn Yeasty Beast family—crowded under the brewery’s grand opening banner. Danny making rabbit ears behind Mark’s head. Trish holding up two overflowing pints like trophies.

  His hands shook as he gathered them, clutching the frames to his chest. The glass pressed cold against his skin. He could feel his heartbeat thudding against them—as if he could will the images back to life through sheer want.

  The darkness spread, swallowing the room inch by inch. Soon, there’d be nothing left.

  Mike lifted his head, staring into the abyss. His voice didn’t waver this time.

  "This… this is the lowest point of my life." A wet, broken laugh. "And it doesn’t get better. The next time you dream—" He tightened his grip on the photos. "—will be the end of my story."

  He said not to himself. Not to the emptiness.

  To you.

  Because you’ve been here before, haven’t you? Watching. Listening.

  Dreaming his dreams.

  ?????

  Kai jolted upright with a gasp, his chest heaving as if he'd been drowning. The phantom weight of Mike's grief still clung to him, pressing against his ribs like a stone. Tears streaked hot down his face—not his own, and yet his entirely.

  Just a dream.

  That's what he told himself every time. But this... this was different. The others had been like watching scenes play out behind glass—vivid, haunting, but distant. This time, it was as if Mike had seen him. As if those final words had been spoken to him, through the veil of whatever strange power connected their worlds.

  A whine cut through the silence.

  Kai turned as Snow nosed against him, the massive white wolf's breath warm against his damp cheek. A rough tongue swiped across his face, lapping away tears with gentle urgency. Snow's ice-blue eyes gleamed in the predawn light, full of concern.

  Reaching up, Kai buried his fingers in the thick fur behind Snow's ears, scratching the spot he knew his companion loved best.

  "It's okay, boy," he murmured, voice still thick with the echo of another man's sorrow. "Just a sad dream. Just..."

  The words tasted like a lie.

  Because it hadn't felt like a dream. The weight of those photographs in his arms, the way the glass had chilled his skin—he could still feel them. And Mike's voice...

  Kai shuddered, drawing his knees up to his chest. Snow immediately pressed closer, his massive body radiating heat against Kai's side. Outside their shelter, the first birds of morning began to call, their songs piercing the mist that curled between the ancient trees.

  The world was moving on as it always did.

  Patreon! You can read chapters early by becoming a patron.