Sleepyhead
“Wake up.”
The whisper grazed my ear like a breath.
I bolted upright, heart hammering against my ribcage. For a moment, the world felt paper-thin—like if I moved too fast, it might tear. The room was cloaked in shadow, broken only by the dull red glow of my alarm clock.
4:00 AM.
I waited.
Nothing.
The silence that followed was too complete. Not even the usual hum of the fridge downstairs or the occasional creak from the heating vents. Just stillness. The kind that feels like it’s listening.
My throat was dry. “Who said that?”
No answer.
I scanned the room—desk, dresser, closet door slightly ajar. Everything was in its place. Still, I swung my legs out of bed, knelt to check underneath. Nothing. I yanked open the closet. Just clothes. I flicked the bathroom light on. My reflection stared back at me, wide-eyed and pale.
I looked like someone trying very hard not to freak out.
“This is fine,” I whispered to myself. “Totally normal.”
Then came the tapping.
Tap.
Tap.
I froze.
The sound was faint—deliberate. Like tiny fingers knocking gently, but insistently, against glass.
Tap-tap.
I turned toward the window. My chest tightened. I took a step. Then another. My bare feet were silent against the carpet, the cold air of the room brushing against my skin like breath from something unseen.
With trembling fingers, I peeled back the curtain and…exhaled.
A dove sat on the railing outside, white feathers flecked with black, eyes shining like obsidian beads. In its beak was a tiny scroll tied with red thread.
“Uh…you lost?”
The dove did not dignify that with a response. Instead, it tilted its head.
I hesitated, then unlocked the window and slid it open. A gust of cold air swept in, raising goosebumps on my arms. The dove didn’t wait—it fluttered in like it owned the place and landed right in the center of my bed.
“Hey! That wasn’t an invitation!”
It ruffled its feathers and dropped the scroll with surprising grace, then gave me a pointed look.
“You’re not gonna start talking, are you?”
No answer. Of course.
I picked up the scroll and unrolled it.
LATITUDE 41° 15’ NORTH, LONGITUDE 95° 56’ WEST.
GO THERE AND WAIT FOR THE SUN TO RISE.
I stared. “Coordinates?” A beat passed before I realized what I was looking at. “That’s in…Downtown Omaha.”
I glanced at the clock again. 4:15 AM.
I flopped back down on the bed, scroll still in hand, and groaned into my pillow. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m not playing along with whatever dream-quest, goose-chase, midnight side-quest this is.”
I laid there for a full minute, trying to convince myself to ignore it. Close my eyes. Pretend it was all a weird, vivid dream and go back to sleep.
And then I sat straight up again, sighing hard.
Of course I was going. I couldn’t not go.
Because deep down—beneath the sarcasm, the overthinking, and the very real desire to stay in my warm bed—I wanted this to mean something. I always felt like I was meant for more. Like the world had left a door open just a crack, and tonight it was finally swinging wide.
I met the dove’s gaze. It looked…pleased.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, rolling out of bed. “You win.”
By 5:30 AM, I was gliding through Omaha on my electric scooter, bundled in my hoodie, headphones in, teeth chattering just a little. The streets were ghostly at this hour—no traffic, no chatter, just the occasional flicker of a streetlamp or the hum of an overhead wire. The city’s usual energy was dormant, like it too was waiting for something.
I passed shuttered shops, their signs dark. Cafés that wouldn’t open for hours. Steam rose from sewer grates like breath from beneath the earth.
A cat watched me from a brick wall as I zipped by, its green eyes glowing in the half-light.
Omaha before dawn was a different world. Not quiet—expectant. Like the whole city had paused, just for me.
When I reached Capitol Avenue, I stopped at the edge of a parking garage. The coordinates had led me here—a blocky, concrete monolith looming in the soft haze of pre-sunrise. The glow from nearby streetlights stretched long, casting distorted shadows that crawled across the asphalt like something alive.
I swallowed. “Well…this isn’t ominous at all.”
The dove, now perched on my shoulder like it was some kind of celestial GPS, nudged me gently with its beak.
“Okay, okay, I’m going.”
I parked my scooter beside the entrance, the tires whispering to a stop. The doors yawned open ahead of me, revealing the empty interior. Each step I took echoed a little too loudly.
The garage smelled like wet concrete and old rain. My breath fogged the air. The tension in my chest only grew as I neared the elevator bank—until I realized I wasn’t just scared.
I was…thrilled.
For once, something was happening. Finally.
I checked my phone. 6:00 AM. Still an hour to sunrise.
I popped in my AirPods, hit shuffle, and leaned against a railing.
The first song that came on? “Sleepyhead,” by Passion Pit. I laughed. “Okay. That’s weirdly fitting.”
I closed my eyes and let the music flood in, trying not to think too hard about what I’d just walked into.
Above the skyline, the sky began to shift—soft purple bleeding into peach, then gold. Morning was coming.
And with it…something else.
The dove stirred.
I glanced over at my scooter’s basket, where it had been curled up like a weirdly well-behaved cat for the past hour. Its feathers puffed slightly as it stood, then—with zero hesitation—it took off.
“Wait—hey!” I called out, already pushing off the railing.
The bird soared toward the structure’s far end, its white shape cutting through the orange-streaked air like an arrow. I jogged after it, weaving past columns and discarded soda cups, until it landed atop a rusted stairwell railing just beside the elevator.
It looked at me. Not urgently, but expectantly. Like this was the moment.
The sky behind it was turning gold, the edges of buildings catching the first real blush of sunlight. The city, sleepy as it was, began to exhale.
I didn’t move.
The elevator doors were shut, gleaming faintly. Not rusted, not broken. Just…wrong somehow. Too quiet. Too still. Like they weren’t used to opening anymore.
I turned back toward the street.
I could leave. Right now. Hop on the scooter, go home, laugh this whole thing off in a few years. Or maybe I’d regret it forever.
The dove fluffed its feathers again. Tapped the elevator button with the tip of its wing.
I almost laughed. “You’re really committed to this bit, huh?”
The button lit up with a soft chime. I didn’t breathe. My heart thudded in my ears as the elevator doors opened with a hiss. And inside—yeah, it wasn’t normal.
Golden paneling gleamed like burnished light. The floor was deep, plush blue carpet, the kind you’d see in a palace. The corners glowed with ambient warmth, like candlelight had been folded into the walls. No grime. No buzzing fluorescent lights. No floor buttons. Just…elegance.
“Alright,” I murmured. “This is where I officially lose my mind.”
I turned back.
The dove stood there, watching me. It didn’t move. It didn’t blink. And, for some reason, that steadiness—that quiet, still faith—hit me harder than any explanation could have. I knew it couldn’t understand me, not in the way people do. But it still waited.
“I don’t know where this goes,” I said softly.
The dove cocked its head. Not in mockery. Just…acceptance.
I stood there a beat longer, wind brushing the back of my neck. The dawn light caught on the edge of the open elevator, warming the interior in soft gold. It almost looked…safe.
Almost.
I looked one last time at the city behind me. At the sky, now fully lit with pinks and yellows. The world I knew—silent, normal, predictable—waited outside.
I didn’t come this far for predictable, though. So, I stepped in.
The carpet sank beneath my shoes like memory foam. The air inside smelled faintly of something old and comforting—vanilla, cedar, a little bit of static.
I turned back just in time to see the dove tilt its head in something close to a goodbye.
“Guess this is it,” I whispered.
The dove gave one final coo—and then the doors slid shut.
