The wind barely stirred the sheer white curtains that hung from the open glass doors. Sunlight pooled onto polished stone floors, casting long, peaceful rectangles of warmth across the interior. The home was minimalist but refined — sharp angles, high ceilings, modern decor with natural touches. Somewhere near the sea, perhaps. But no water was in sight.
THE REAL Sommer Dai sat at a sleek desk positioned beside a wide, floor-length window. A leather-bound journal lay open in front of her. A delicate stylus hovered in her right hand.
She was calm. Serene, even. Dressed in a simple white tunic and loose pants, barefoot. Her hair was tied up, her expression reflective as she leaned over the journal.
She began to write.
Today, I remembered something I hadn't thought about in years. The way my mother's hands moved when she was frightened. How—
But as the stylus moved, the page remained blank.
She frowned.
Tried again. Slower this time.
I can still hear his voice. Andrew, that first time on Zeltros. The quiet moments when—
Still nothing. No ink. No impression.
Her hand trembled slightly. She placed the stylus down. Flipped back several pages.
All blank.
She turned another. And another.
Nothing.
Not a single written word, despite the weight in her chest telling her that she had poured her soul into these pages.
Sommer (softly):
"…
Why can't I write?"
Her voice echoed too clearly. No ambient noise followed it. No birds, no hums of distant tech, no creaking wood. Just silence.
She stood and glanced around the home.
It was
hers, she was sure of that. Everything here felt familiar — the textured wall art from Naboo, the potted blue-leafed fern from Corellia, the tray of perfumed oils she never used but kept anyway.
But there was no one else.
Sommer (calling out):
"___________?"
Nothing.
She moved toward the kitchen. Empty.
Walked past a hallway that should have led to a guest room.
Nothing.
A gentle static began to creep into her hearing — faint, like a memory eroding.
She returned to the living room and looked out the massive window again, now with growing unease.
The view hadn't changed.
No people. No ships in the sky. No waves. Just light.
Sommer (louder):
"
Where is everyone?"
The stillness pressed in now. Claustrophobic. Wrong.
She looked back to the journal. Pages fluttered open of their own accord, as if some unseen breeze had stirred them. But when they stopped — there, scrawled across the last page in bold black ink — was a single word:
Sommer stumbled back from the desk. Her breath caught.
Then—
The light outside began to dim. Slowly. Imperceptibly at first, but enough that the warmth drained from the air.
She turned toward the hallway again. A soft
hiss echoed from within it.
And then—
A
woman's voice, familiar but warped, whispered from the shadow:
"Stay asleep, Sommer. It's safer this way."
Her blood went cold.
Sommer (whispers):
"No…
I'm not dreaming. I'm trapped."
