The transition from dreamscape to reality happens with violent immediacy—one moment I'm falling through impossible twilight, Gabriel's laughter echoing in my ears, and the next I'mhere, wherever here is, staring at something that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
Void eyes.
Inches from my face.
Two pools of absolute nothing that somehow convey more expression than features ever could, set in a skull-face that tilts with canine curiosity as a familiar voice creaks through the silence.
"Greeeeee?"
Grim.
The little reaper hovers at eye level, his diminutive form casting no shadow despite the soft luminescence that fills whatever space I've woken into. His robes—too large for his tiny frame, trailing into wisps of darkness that never quite touch the ground—shift with movements that have nothing to do with air currents. The void that comprises his eyes pulses withsomething that might be concern, might be excitement, might be emotions that don't translate to languages the living understand.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Three times, trying to reconcile the small harbinger of death studying my face with the chaotic rush of memories still swirling through my consciousness. The dreamscape. Gabriel. The revelation about Deathshire Academy. Thefall?—
"Greeeeee!"
Grim's celebration cuts through my disorientation with the force of a thunderclap.
His miniature scythe pops into existence beside him, manifesting from shadows that coalesce into gleaming metal faster than my eyes can track. The blade catches light that shouldn't exist, reflecting it in patterns that hurt to look at directly, and he begins to sway side to side with the particular enthusiasm of someone who has just witnessed a miracle.
He's... happy I'm awake.
The realization makes something warm bloom in my chest despite everything—despite the lingering grief of Gabriel's farewell, despite the anxiety about what awaits in Year Four, despite the thousand questions crowding my mind demanding answers I don't possess.
I can't help but smirk.
The expression feels foreign on features I'm only now becoming aware of—cheeks that ache slightly, lips that are dry, skin that carries the particular sensitivity of someone who has been unconscious for longer than intended. My heart continues its rapid percussion against my ribs, residual adrenaline from the dream refusing to dissipate despite the apparent safety of my surroundings.
Breathe.
I force air into lungs that feel like they've forgotten how to expand properly.
Just breathe.
The rhythm comes slowly, each inhale a conscious choice rather than automatic function. One breath. Two. Three. The chaos in my chest begins to settle, heart rate gradually decreasing from frantic to merely elevated, muscles releasing tension I didn't realize I was holding.
Remember.
The thought surfaces with urgency that cuts through the physical recovery.
You need to remember what happened. What Gabriel said. The riddles and revelations and?—
A tiny finger pokes my cheek.
The sensation is so unexpected that my train of thought derails entirely, attention snapping back to Grim who has apparently decided that my moment of contemplation has lasted long enough. His skull-face radiates satisfaction at having successfully interrupted my spiral, and as I watch, a notepad materializes beside him in a poof of shadow-smoke.
The notepad hovers in the air with the particular defiance of objects that have decided physics no longer applies to them.
Grim gestures toward it with his scythe, the motion somehow conveyinglook at thisdespite his lack of conventional facial expressions.
I frown, attention shifting to the pages he's presenting.
