[every plan is a tiny prayer to father time]

With a gasp, Anya sits bolt upright in her bed.

The sheets are tangled around her legs, her hair clings in sweaty curls to the back of her neck, tears on cheeks. Pressing her hand to her chest, she tries to steady her rapidly beating heart. Ghostly pain lances through her limbs, screams echo through her head.

Light streams through the window telling her that morning has finally come.

It had felt bone-crushingly real. A night that has haunted her in various forms for a decade, populated by ghosts who haunt her dreams. It had been brighter somehow. More real, each time a little different, each ending horrifyingly the same despite her pleading. Except that last time.

Her fingers clench, a shiver running down her spine at the memory of Gleb. They had both been so painfully young, so desperate as they fled for that wall. But it hadn't been enough. Her father's confusion, his father's horror. She can still feel his heart slowing under her hands, the warm slickness of blood, the last of his breath against her cheek.

Had it been real? Or had her mind been trying to tell her something? Giving her yet another set of ghosts?

There is only one way to know. Sliding from the bed, she glances at the clock to check the time. Hastily pulling a simple robin's egg blue shirt dress over her head, nearly forgetting to put on leggings and socks before she slides on her boots and coat. She has to turn around in the door to grab her purse, unbuttoned coat flapping in the wind. Urgency moves her, a frantic need to know if it was all made up in her head.

The walk to his flat is a blur, the elevator ride exchange with a neighbor is a complete blank. It isn't until she is standing in front of his door, hand raised to knock that she has a moment of pause. To wonder if she is doing the right thing.

Shoving it aside, she knocks twice before letting her hand fall back to her side.