The Dream of Silver Eyes
The night was quiet.
Too quiet — the kind that made Aira’s heart beat louder than the world itself.
Silver light spilled through her window, brushing against her face as if the moon itself was trying to wake her. And again… she dreamed.
The same dream she had every full moon.
A forest of mist and moonlight stretched endlessly, glowing like liquid silver. The air shimmered with something that felt both alive and ancient. And there — standing at the heart of it — was him.
The prince. The man she could never remember by day, yet could never forget by night.
He stood beneath a glowing crescent moon, dressed in black armor etched with runes that pulsed faintly with light. His hair shimmered white like snow in moonlight, and his eyes — his eyes were pure silver. Cold. Beautiful. Endless.
He reached out a hand to her, his voice deep and broken.
“Lyra… you came back.”
Aira froze. That name again.
Every time, he called her Lyra. Never Aira.
She opened her mouth to ask who he was — but the world began to collapse. The sky cracked like glass, and his figure blurred into mist. The sound of his voice echoed, fading as the dream broke.
“Find me… before the next moon fades…”
Aira gasped awake.
Sweat glistened on her forehead as she sat up in bed, her breath sharp and uneven. Her heart was racing — not from fear, but from longing.
Like she had just lost someone all over again.
She rubbed her wrist absentmindedly — the small crescent-moon birthmark glowed faintly under the silver light streaming through the window.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the night.
“And why do I feel like I already love you?”
Outside, the moon shone brighter — as if listening.
And somewhere, beyond the veil of dreams, a silver-eyed prince smiled faintly in the shadows.
“Soon,” he whispered, “we meet again, Lyra.”
Whispers in the Gallery
The rain hadn’t stopped since morning.
Drops tapped gently against the tall glass windows of Elysium Art Academy, the sound almost rhythmic, like a quiet song that only Aira could hear.
She sat alone in the studio corner, paintbrush in hand, a half-finished canvas glowing under the soft yellow lights. Her classmates were long gone, but she stayed — lost again in the colors of her dream.
Silver. Midnight blue. Faint shades of mist.
And those eyes.
No matter how many times she tried to paint something new, her hand always returned to his face. The unknown prince beneath the moonlight. Every line of his jaw, every flicker of sadness in his eyes — she could see it all so clearly, as if she’d known him her entire life.
“Still working, Aira?”
Her art teacher, Mrs. Ren, peeked in with a gentle smile.
Aira startled slightly, hiding her trembling hands.
“Uh—yeah. Just finishing this one.”
Mrs. Ren stepped closer and tilted her head. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “But… strange. It feels alive. Who is he?”
Aira hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I just… see him in my dreams.”
Mrs. Ren smiled faintly, though her eyes lingered on the portrait longer than usual.
“Well, dreams have their own stories, dear. Maybe you’re remembering one.”
When the teacher left, Aira turned back to the painting.
But this time, something felt wrong.
The air shifted — cold, electric. The lights flickered.
And for just a second… the painted man’s eyes moved.
She dropped her brush.
“No way—”
The moment vanished. The painting was still again, perfectly still. But Aira’s breath caught in her throat. The silver eyes on the canvas seemed to look through her now, not just at her.
She packed her things quickly, heart pounding, and stepped into the rain.
Outside, the night was alive with thunder. Lightning cut across the sky, illuminating the streets.
And standing across the road, half-hidden beneath an umbrella, was a man — tall, dark, and eerily familiar.
Her heartbeat stopped.
He wasn’t watching her like a stranger.
He was looking at her like someone who had waited lifetimes to see her again.
“Lyra…” the man whispered under the rain.
Aira froze.
That name again.
But before she could speak, a car passed, splashing water across the road — and when she looked again, he was gone.
Only the sound of rain remained.
And yet, her birthmark burned softly beneath her sleeve — glowing like the moon itself had touched her skin.
