Mazelov

The dream came upon Ilya suddenly, but it was strangely real. You stood in the dim light filtering through the thick fog. Your eyes, like evening stars, gazed at him with inexpressible longing. You didn't say a word, but your presence was a cry, a plea for help. Koryakov felt a chill run down his spine and suddenly woke up, his heart pounding.

Morning brought chilling news. Footage from security cameras flashed on the TV screen, and a hoarse voice announced a brutal abduction at a gas station that night. Ilya froze. The victim's face, illuminated by the flashes of the cameras, was painfully familiar. It was you, from his dream. But something inside him refused to accept this reality. He felt you alive, that your soul was somehow connected to his.

Every night, he plunged back into the realm of dreams, hoping to see you again, to receive some kind of sign. And you came. Your image grew clearer, and the whispers he couldn't decipher before took on meaning. You named places for him—forgotten alleys, old parks, abandoned factories. During the day, as if possessed, Ilya would visit these places, traversing them, listening to every rustle, peering into the shadows. He knew that somewhere out there, between reality and dreams, you were waiting for him.