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Jenna’s consciousness, still tethered to her slumbering form, was plunging toward a different reality. The transition was seamless, a slipstream carrying her into the lucid dream state she knew well. She saw that she was standing at the edge of the Sablewood Reservoir, but the stillness was unsettling—a void where not even the nocturnal chorus of crickets was heard.

Despite the absence of moonlight, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, piercing through the thick mist that swirled around her like wraiths in mourning. A chill crept along her skin as she scanned the expanse before her. The reservoir, often a mirror to the sky above, lay dormant, its surface an opaque canvas reflecting only the obsidian night. This place, no stranger to silence and secrets, held its breath.

Then a willow tree materialized from the mist, its branches weeping into the water, an emblem of the joining of nature and the supernatural. A ripple disturbed the water’s surface, soon followed by the emergence of a male figure that broke through the surface. Water streamed off of him, as if shedding the weight of his watery grave, each droplet catching what little light there was and casting fleeting, shimmering glimmers around his ghostly body.

Jenna’s heart thrummed against her ribcage, the rhythm quickening. Could this be another drowning victim reaching out through the veil of death?

As the spectral form drew nearer, the need to understand its purpose consumed Jenna. The connection between them was tenuous, a thread spun from the intangible fabric of dreams and the dead’s desire to be heard. Jenna focused on the figure, willing her psychic gift to bridge the divide, to receive the message hidden in the ghostly silhouette that now stood mere inches from the shore.

Jenna’s voice pierced the silence that blanketed the reservoir, her question dissipating into the mist like a stone skipped across the water’s surface. “Are you Mike Larson?” The figure before her, an indistinct silhouette in the nocturnal haze, responded not with words but with a slow shake of his head.

The figure opened his mouth, and from it came a voice, garbled and distant as if carried by an underwater current. Jenna leaned forward, straining her senses. She had become adept at deciphering the enigmatic language of the dead, the subtle cues and fragmented messages they conveyed. Yet the words that emerged now were unlike any she had encountered in her vigil between worlds.

“I’m... I’m …” the figure whispered, his voice trailing off into a mere breath against the chill air. Then, in a distorted voice, he said another word that she couldn’t quite understand.

It sounded to Jenna like the word he said was “alive.”

What could that mean? Had the figure just told her that he was alive? Since when had living people started visiting her in her dreams? That was never supposed to happen.

“Who are you?” she pressed, urgency sharpening her tone.

In a clearer tone than before, the figure added, “There are three of us.”

“What do you mean?” Jenna asked.

But her inquiry would go unanswered. His momentary solidity wavering, the figure began to descend once more into the dark water. Desperation gave way to helplessness as Jenna watched the form dissolve into the reservoir, leaving behind only the memory of its presence and the faintest whisper of that impossible message.

“Wait!” Her plea sliced through the silence of the dream. But the reservoir reclaimed its own, swallowing the mysterious apparition with a quiet finality that left only ripples across its surface. The tranquility of the water mocked her urgency, reflecting nothing back but the moonless night.

The transition from sleep to wakefulness was abrupt, jerking Jenna into reality with her heart hammering against her ribcage. She sat bolt upright, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like cobwebs. Sweat beaded on her brow, the chill of the room battling the heat that flushed her skin.

The puzzling words reverberated in Jenna’s mind. They had sounded like “I’m alive.” Was that what the dream figure had said? Had that distorted pronouncement been a trick of her own subconscious, or a genuine cry from beyond?

The digital display of her bedside clock announced 6:45 AM, a familiar waking hour. Moving with urgency, Jenna grabbed the pencil and notebook she kept by the bed and scribbled down everything she could remember about the dream, even though details were starting to slip away from her already. She had learned long ago that this effort not only kept her from forgetting crucial details, but it was also part of the practice that actually promoted more clarity in future lucid dreams.

The dim glow of dawn seeped through her window, casting muted light on the pages as she wrote. But the message still confused her—the distorted, barely audible word that sounded like “alive.”

Jenna’s training in law enforcement had honed her ability to piece together evidence, but this was beyond physical clues. It was a realm where intuition reigned supreme—a gift that she hadn’t chosen, but had chosen her.

After she closed her notebook and set it aside, Jenna rose and made her way to the kitchen. Her movements were automatic, the routine of breakfast preparation a welcome distraction from the tumultuous start to her day. She remembered that just yesterday afternoon, she had poured out her mother’s bourbon. The comforting conversation with Zeke Canfield had left her with hopes of better days to come.

As eggs sizzled in the pan and toast crisped in the toaster, her thoughts meandered to the previous day’s lighter moments. A smile tugged at her lips, recalling the absurdity of chasing Hilda Thornton’s raccoon intruder from the attic—an unexpected interlude of normalcy. In those brief, shared episodes of small-town policing, she found a semblance of grounding—a reminder that not all of her world revolved around the ethereal whispers and cries of the lost. The raccoon caper was a snapshot of life’s simpler challenges, and Jenna allowed herself to bask briefly in the memory.

She set the plate on the table, a simple meal of eggs and toast that seemed too mundane for the morning’s surreal start. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small kitchen, its warmth promising a moment’s peace before the day’s demands reclaimed her attention

And then it began. As Jenna reached for the coffee mug, the familiar vibration of her cellphone on the wooden table pierced the silence. She glanced at the screen, noting Melissa Stark’s name flashing urgently. With a swift motion, she picked up the call.

“Jenna, it’s Melissa. I have news about the body,” came the coroner’s crisp voice over the line, without preamble.

“Go ahead,” Jenna replied.

“I’ve just received the dental records from Colstock. They confirm what you suspected—Mike Larson is our John Doe.”

Jenna felt a jolt of rising wakefulness at the news. This was, indeed, a major break in the case.

“Thanks, Melissa,” Jenna said. “I’ll proceed accordingly.”

“Let me know what happens, Jenna,” Melissa said. “I’m curious.”

“I’ll do that.”

Ending the call, Jenna placed the phone back on the table. Mike Larson’s identity was no longer an assumption but a fact. As she started on her breakfast, the practical part of her mind began to chart the course of action. The news about Mike Larson cast a new gloom over the day ahead; interviewing his widow would be no easy task.

The puzzle of her dream still loomed, begging for attention. The figure had spoken clearly when he’d said, “There are three of us.” Did that mean more bodies lay under the water in the reservoir? If so, why had he said, “I’m alive”? Or had he really said that? Had she misheard those words?

In the quiet of the morning, Jenna found no answers. She pushed away her plate and picked up her phone again, calling a familiar number. The line rang twice before Jake’s voice came on the line, “Hawkins.”

“Jake, it’s Jenna,” she said crisply. “Melissa just confirmed our John Doe is Mike Larson. The dental records matched. It’s him.”

“Damn,” came Jake’s response, his voice rough with sleep. “What’s our next move?”

“We need to head to Colstock,” Jenna said decisively. “Talk to people who knew him—especially his widow. I’m coming to pick you up.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” Jake replied, the sound of rustling sheets in the background. “I’ll be ready.”

“See you soon,” Jenna said before hanging up. She felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with the prospect of untangling a new lead.

A moment lingered in the early morning quiet, where the only sound was the soft hum of her refrigerator in the next room. Then, she made another call.

“Frank, it’s Jenna. We’ve identified the body. It’s Larson, alright.”

Frank’s voice came through the line. “I thought it might be. Are you heading to Colstock?”

“Jake and I are on our way soon. Want to join us?”

There was a brief pause, and Jenna could almost picture Frank rubbing his stubbled chin in thought. “No, I think in this case, fewer is better,” he said finally. “Mary Larson’s been through enough. The last time she saw me was shortly after Mike’s disappearance. My showing up might just stir more pain.”

Jenna understood; Frank’s presence carried the weight of authority and a history that might close more doors than open them in this delicate situation. “Understood,” she acknowledged. “Thanks, Frank. If you hadn’t guessed the body might be Mike Larson’s, we’d never have gotten this far.”

“Glad to help out. Good luck, Jenna,” he said, leaving Jenna alone once again with the silence of her kitchen.

“Retirement suits you, Frank,” she murmured to herself, the hint of a smile fleeting across her face as she imagined him recounting his raccoon escapade to anyone who would listen. But he still had the instincts of a true lawman—instincts that had led directly to identifying Mike Larson’s body.

She grabbed her keys from a small bowl by the door, but before stepping out, she paused, another matter on her mind.

Flipping open her phone once more, Jenna dialed her mother’s number. The rings were short, quick bursts in the stillness of the early hour. When her mother answered, the alertness in her voice surprised Jenna, hinting at an unexpected vigor.

“Mom, it’s Jenna,” she said. “Have you looked in your mailbox yet?”

“No.”

“I dropped something off for you last night—it’s in your mailbox.”

“Something for me?” Her mother’s curiosity piqued through the line, a soft rustle suggesting movement on the other end. Jenna pictured her, perhaps already making her way toward the front door, curiosity replacing what was once a morning fog of hangovers. Jenna felt a twinge of apprehension. How was Mom going to react to Zeke’s list of AA meetings and support groups? Last night it had seemed like the right thing to do. But might Mom actually resent Jenna’s intrusion into such a personal matter?

She heard a rattle that must be the mailbox, then her mother’s voice crackled through the line, “Oh, I see. This is very thoughtful of you. Thank you, dear.”

“The one that’s circled in pencil is the meeting Zeke goes to,” Jenna said. “He recommends it.”

“That’s good to know. Like I said yesterday, I’m not ready for this kind of thing quite yet, but I’m sure I will be soon.”

Relief swept over Jenna like a cool breeze on a sweltering summer day. There was no resentment, only gratitude. “Love you, Mom,” Jenna said.

“Love you too.”

“See you soon.”

With a contented sigh, Jenna ended the call and slipped her phone into her pocket. She knew that her mother’s journey might be fraught with setbacks and struggles, but today, Jenna could bask in the knowledge that sometimes the smallest steps forward were the ones that mattered most.

When she stepped out into the early morning air, the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, casting a serene glow over Trentville’s quiet streets. As she locked the door behind her, the weight of her responsibilities seemed lighter somehow, bolstered by the knowledge that, despite the odds, there was progress.

She glanced around the neighborhood, noting the dew clinging to spiderwebs and the sleepy chirps of birds beginning to stir. It was a new day, ripe with possibility. The world was waking up around her, and with it, the reality of the task beckoned. Mike Larson’s case wasn’t going to solve itself, and Jenna had leads to follow, questions to ask. Yet, for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to savor the tranquility of the morning, a brief respite before delving back into the chaos.

Then she got into her cruiser and started the engine, her thoughts shifting gears to the investigation as she pulled away from the curb. Colstock awaited, with its own secrets and stories, and somewhere among them lay the answers she sought. Every intuition, every hunch, every dream might just bring her one step closer to unraveling the mystery that now consumed her waking hours as much as it haunted her sleep.

As she drove, the echoes of last night’s dream whispered ominously in the back of her mind. In all her years of receiving messages from the other side in her dreams, it was always the dead who sought her out. Now, the potential that a living soul could reach across the void of dreams unsettled her. Jenna had always assumed that her sister was alive because she’d never met her in a lucid dream.

But had the rules changed? If someone had told her dream self “I’m alive,” what did that mean and how could she find out?