Fossils of Memory

Chapter 3

Rhiana had always known comfort. Even before she was born, her parents had filled a nursery with toys, clothes, and dreams. Her childhood was protected, almost too perfect. There was no hunger, no fear, no reason to question the world around her. She was adored, and she never needed to ask for anything—everything was simply given.

And from the beginning, she was drawn to color.

Walls, books, furniture—nothing was safe from her early crayon assaults. Her mother would scold her, but her father would just laugh and call it "abstract." As she grew older, her childish scribbles became careful brushstrokes. Painting became her language. A canvas didn't just capture her thoughts—it helped her understand them.

But that changed the night she had the dream.

She couldn't explain it clearly, but she remembered every detail of it. She had walked through a place she had never visited, yet it all felt strangely known. The streets, the buildings, the air. It felt old, from another time—but her feet moved like they remembered the way. Her hands touched things with the familiarity of someone who had lived there.

She started returning to that place in her sleep. Over and over again.

A field of tulips. Someone digging. The wind chimes swaying on a porch. A house that didn't belong in this century. A sense of urgency, of something unfinished, always pulled at her.

The dreams weren't ordinary. They didn't feel like imagination. They felt like memories.

And they began to affect her waking life.

Rhiana started to withdraw. She couldn't explain to her parents what was happening. She didn't want to. She didn't know how. Her once vibrant personality dulled. She kept to herself. Even her best friend Alice noticed the change. But Rhiana had no words for the things she saw.

One afternoon, her mother walked past her room and paused in the doorway. Rhiana was sitting at her desk, painting with quiet intensity. The brush moved with fluid precision across the canvas. Her mother stepped closer and froze.

The painting was of a woman lying in bed. Her face was haunting—eyes wide, staring, pleading silently for help. The sorrow in her gaze was unmistakable. It wasn't just a painting. It was a cry.

Rhiana didn't know who the woman was. She had never met her. But she had seen her—in one of the dreams. Her hands had moved almost on their own, as if they were remembering something she couldn't.

When the painting was finished, she stared at it in disbelief. How had she done that? How had she known that face?

It unsettled her.

She didn't show it to anyone. She tucked it away and tried to forget.

But the unease stayed.

She didn't know what the dreams meant.

She only knew they were trying to tell her something—and whatever it was, it was getting closer.