Genevieve almost never dreamed. That was why the dream frightened her so much.

Genevieve almost never dreamed.

That was why the dream frightened her so much.

It began peacefully. She was walking through a wide, golden field under a bright afternoon sun. The air was warm and soft against her skin. Wildflowers brushed against her legs as she moved forward, calm and strangely happy.

In the distance, she saw people gathered together. They were all dressed in black.

As she approached, she realized it was a ceremony.

But no one was crying.

They were smiling.

Clapping.

For her.

A path opened through the crowd, and the people looked at her with admiration, almost worship. It felt as if she were a queen being honored. At the center of the gathering stood a large, polished black coffin beside a deep, freshly dug grave.

The soil was dark. Rich. Waiting.

Sophia was there too.

Sophia smiled warmly and held out her hand.

“Come,” she whispered.

Genevieve did not feel fear. She felt… pulled. As if invisible strings were guiding her body. Her feet moved without her permission. The clapping grew louder, rhythmic, hypnotic.

She reached the coffin.

It was beautiful. Smooth. Perfect.

She lifted her foot to step inside.

Suddenly—

“Genevieve, RUN!!! This grave is not meant for you!!”

The voice shattered the air like breaking glass.

From beneath the shadow of a twisted tree stood the strange boy everyone in town called mad. His eyes were wide, wild—but clear. Terrified.

His scream broke the spell.

The clapping stopped.

The sky darkened.

The smiling faces began to rot before her eyes.

And Genevieve woke up.

She sat upright in her bed, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding violently. Her room was dark and silent. She pressed her hand against her chest.

“I don’t dream…” she whispered. “Why now? Why graves? And why him?”

A loud knock struck her door.

She flinched.

Another knock.

When she opened it, Sophia stood there, looking pale and exhausted.

“I’m so sorry,” Sophia blurted out, stepping inside without waiting. She grabbed Genevieve’s hands. “I can’t leave you. I don’t care what my mother says. She’s wrong. You’re not a curse.”

Genevieve pulled her hands back gently. “Your mother thinks something follows me. And after that dream… I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Forget it,” Sophia said firmly. “Let the dead bury their dead. I don’t care about superstitions. You’re my friend.”

She stayed the entire day. They cooked together, laughed, tried to pretend everything was normal. The warmth of friendship pushed the nightmare into a corner of Genevieve’s mind.

Until night came.

They sat together in the living room with the lights low, watching a movie. The soft glow of the television filled the room.

Then the screen flickered.

Genevieve blinked.

The actors vanished.

In their place appeared a clear image of a grave.

Not from the movie.

The same grave from her dream.

Black soil. Deep. Waiting.

“Sophia!” Genevieve screamed, stumbling back. “Do you see it?!”

“See what?” Sophia asked, confused. “It’s just the movie.”

“It’s the grave! It’s right there!”

But Sophia saw nothing unusual.

The screen showed ordinary dialogue. Ordinary faces.

Genevieve clutched her head.

The room tilted.

A loud ringing filled her ears.

Then everything went dark.

She collapsed onto the sofa.

“Genevieve!” Sophia cried, shaking her. No response. Her skin felt ice cold.

Sophia ran to the kitchen, grabbed water, poured it over her friend’s face.

Nothing.

Her eyes were open—but empty.

As if she were somewhere else.

And she was.

Genevieve found herself standing inside the grave from her dream.

The sky above was gray and endless. She tried to climb out, but the soil crumbled beneath her fingers.

“You were not meant for this place.”

She turned.

The mad boy stood above the grave, looking down at her.

“What is happening?” she cried.

He crouched near the edge. “This grave belongs to the one who called you.”

“Sophia?” Genevieve whispered.

The boy nodded slowly. “She carries death around her like perfume. It is not your grave. But if you take her place, it will become yours.”

Back in the living room, Sophia’s tears fell onto Genevieve’s cold face.

“I didn’t mean for this,” she whispered.

Her voice changed.

Lower.

Older.

“You were always the stronger one, Genevieve.”

The lights flickered violently.

A shadow moved behind Sophia.

The television screen went black—then showed the grave again.

But now there was a name on the headstone.

Sophia.

Genevieve understood.

Her friend had not come that morning out of guilt.

She had come because something inside her needed a body.

A replacement.

In the grave, Genevieve felt warmth spread through her chest. The mad boy extended his hand.

“Choose,” he said. “Stay and save her. Or leave and save yourself.”

Above her, she could hear Sophia whispering words in a language she did not recognize.

The soil began to rise.

The grave was closing.

Genevieve grabbed the boy’s hand.

“I will not die for something that is not mine.”

The world split open.

In the living room, Sophia screamed as an invisible force threw her

backward against the wall. The shadow behind her twisted violently.

Genevieve gasped and inhaled sharply.

Air filled her lungs.

Warmth returned to her body.

She sat up suddenly.

Sophia lay on the floor, unconscious.

The television was shattered.

And outside, in the darkness beyond the window, the mad boy stood beneath a tree.

Watching.

For the first time, Genevieve understood.

The grave had never been hers.

But death had been waiting very close.

And it was not finished yet.