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Jenna’s kept her gaze fixed on the flying sandpiper, which seemed to pull her along an invisible tether as she pursued it, airborne herself. The bird seemed to transmit a sense of urgency, an unspoken command urging her to keep pace. Beneath them, Whitmore Lake State Forest unfurled like a living tapestry, the winding road a charcoal ribbon against the rich green backdrop.

The sensation was intoxicating, but this time was different from some of her lucid dreams, where lucidity brought some degree of control. As it sometimes happened, although Jenna knew she was dreaming, she found that her consciousness could only observe. She was carried upon the whims of her avian guide.

The sandpiper darted ahead, cutting through the thickening air with purpose. Each flap of its wings seemed to punctuate the forest’s whispering secrets. Jenna followed, breathless and silent, a passenger in her own mind.

She knew she had been here before, both in the thrall of a dream and in the waking world in her patrol car. The ground below mirrored the gravel road she had driven. The lake loomed ahead, its still waters a mirror reflecting an endless night sky. The sandpiper’s wings beat with increased urgency, a frenetic tempo that echoed Jenna’s pounding heart.

Her perception narrowed as the dream hurtled her down through the forest, the trees melding into a blur. As they neared the dock, the bird descended again, its form cutting through the dense air with grace and purpose. Jenna followed, and soon her dream self walked on the dock toward the weathered post at the far end. A familiar dread knotted in her stomach as the carved initials came into view: “P.G. 7/29/2010.”

Her dream self stood there, at the edge of the dock, staring at the inscription as though it might yield secrets that Jenna had sought for two decades. Her fingers twitched, an instinctual desire to trace the carved initials “P.G.”, but she refrained, knowing the futility of trying to make physical contact in this dreamscape. Instead, she absorbed every detail—the rugged indentations, the weathering around the edges, the date that seemed to taunt her with its significance.

Jenna’s intuition, which straddled the bounds of the natural and supernatural, assured her that the carving was a signpost, a guidepost. It was a message from the past or a precursor of what was to come …

Or perhaps it’s both, she thought.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t merely a figment of her dreaming imagination. It was undeniably real when Jenna had found it in waking life just yesterday. Could Piper have come here to leave this mark so long after her disappearance?

“Could you be out there, Piper?” Jenna whispered to herself, her voice a mere breath in the stillness. Eyes locked on the inscription, she took a step forward on the old dock, her spectral form casting no shadow. She called into the void, her voice stronger now. “Piper, are you here?” The words sliced through the silence, skimming over the lake’s surface, seeking her missing twin sister, the other half of her soul.

The inquiry went unanswered. No response came from the darkened tree line or the reflective abyss of the water. Jenna listened intently, straining to hear even the slightest whisper, a rustle of leaves perhaps, that might signal a presence. But there was only the sound of her own breathing, ragged and heavy with anticipation.

She turned away from the haunting inscription, letting the image burn into her memory alongside so many others collected over years of searching. Each piece, each dream, each whisper brought her closer to the sister whose absence shaped her life. Although it seemed clear that the answer wouldn’t be found tonight, the quest was far from over.

Then a whisper sliced through the silence. “Look,” it said.

Jenna pivoted, her movements ethereal as if she were composed of nothing more substantial than the mist rising from the lake’s surface at dawn. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, a dissonant echo to the calm that enveloped the dreamscape. She had expected—or perhaps hoped—for the comforting presence of Piper, but instead, she was met with an anomaly: an image suspended in front of her—the photograph of a teenaged girl.

The picture was comprised of dots impressed upon what appeared to be yellowed paper, like a black-and-white newspaper photo. Moving closer now, Jenna scrutinized the girl’s face, seeking clues within the grainy texture, the girl in the image seemed unfamiliar, yet the eyes held her—a silent plea or perhaps an accusation radiating from their depths.

Jenna struggled to find something familiar in the girl’s face, but the dotted visage was hard to make out in sufficient detail. Then, as she watched, the figure began to stir. A flicker, a subtle shift, and the stillness shattered. The lips of the image parted, a crease formed in the paper reality, hinting at words unspoken.

For a moment, Jenna forgot to breathe. The line between her spectral existence and the waking world blurred. Here in this liminal space, she was more than Genesius County’s sheriff; she was a conduit for voices that whispered from beyond the veil. Her eyes remained locked on the figure, willing the apparition to divulge its secrets.

Then wakefulness seized her like in its unwelcome, vise-like grip.

Reluctant to surrender the thread of her dream, Jenna tossed beneath the sheets, her movements fueled by a desperate need to reconnect with the enigma that had visited her slumber. She replayed the scene over and over, dissecting every detail of the girl’s face, the way her lips had begun to part …

She sealed her eyelids, trying to go to sleep again. But dreams are elusive creatures; the more Jenna pursued this one, the more it receded, slipping through her mental grasp like sand. Her bed became an arena of futile struggle, each position less comfortable than the last, each thought spiraling into the next without conclusion or solace.

With a sigh heavy with resignation, Jenna admitted defeat to the morning. The digital clock on her nightstand glared at her with the early hour, its red numbers a testament to the time stolen by her restless chase. Her eyes, once immersed in the spectral realm, were forced open by the intrusion of morning light that spilled carelessly through her bedroom curtains.

The room around her was steeped in the quiet of dawn, yet inside her mind, the image of the girl from the photograph persisted with clarity. It presented a striking disparity to the warmth of her bed, the familiarity of her surroundings in Trentville, where the supernatural often breached the veil of the mundane. Her breathing slowed, an attempt to calm the frustration that threatened to spill into the day ahead.

The mystery of the girl clung to her like the remnants of a cobweb, intangible yet irksome. The face in her dream, so close to speaking, now felt like a puzzle piece she couldn’t place, hovering just beyond reach. With a sigh that carried the remnants of her dream, she rolled onto her side, attempting to recapture the fleeting threads of sleep.

She squeezed her eyes tighter, willing the vision to return, but the room’s persistent reality held firm, refusing to relinquish its grip. As the first rays of dawn began to seep into her bedroom, Jenna’s eyes fluttered open. Reluctantly, she acknowledged the arrival of morning. The room was bathed in a gentle glow as sunlight filtered through the curtains, outlining objects with a softness that contended bitterly with the stark reality her mind had just left behind.

With a resigned breath, Jenna swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool touch of the wooden floor grounding her further in the unwelcome wakefulness. There was no going back to the dream now, only forward into the day that awaited.

She stood, the weight of unanswered questions bearing down on her shoulders. She drew a steadying breath, preparing to face whatever realities—mundane or mystical—the daylight hours might hold. Her routine was mechanical, a sequence of actions performed with little conscious thought as the echoes of her dream reverberated in her mind. Shower water sluiced over her body, a cascading stream that failed to wash away the persistent feeling of having been so close, yet so far from the truth.

Jenna’s body navigated the morning with a mind of its own. The shower’s hot spray pelted her skin without truly being felt, the steam clouding around her like the mists of her persistent dream. The pulsating water should have been soothing, but it was just another sensation that failed to penetrate the fog of her thoughts.

She dressed in her uniform, each article of clothing a piece of armor against the day ahead, shielding her from the town’s curiosity and concern. Jenna’s fingers worked nimbly at the buttons, slipping into the familiar guise of Genesius County’s sheriff. Her reflection in the mirror was perfunctory, the green of her eyes dimmed.

Standing at her kitchen counter, Jenna stirred her coffee, the spoon clinking against the ceramic in a rhythmic pattern. Normally the aroma would stir her senses, but today it went unnoticed, overshadowed by the implications of her dream.

Breakfast was a silent affair—the scrape of her knife spreading butter on toast, the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic as she scooped yogurt into a bowl. She ate because the day required it, not out of hunger. Each bite was automatic, tasteless, punctuated by the relentless replay of the dream: the sandpiper, the lake, the mysterious girl in the photograph.

She had thought that Piper must be the one who had visited the dock five years after vanishing and carved the initials P.G. there. But why did the pictured image portray someone else entirely? Was it possible that the message wasn’t left by Piper at all?

If not Piper, then who? And why leave such a cryptic message in such a secluded place? The possibility that the girl in her dream was offering clues grew heavier in her thoughts. The connection between the dreams and her waking life had always been strong, but this felt different, even more direct.

The implications of this revelation were profound. If P.G. was someone else, then what did it mean for Piper? For years, Jenna had clung to the belief that her twin was still alive, somewhere, waiting to be found. But this new development suggested some other story could be about to unfold.

The specter of a teenage girl with faded features haunted the edges of her consciousness. The girl’s appearance posed a delicate riddle. If indeed this was a spirit, what message was she desperate to convey? Jenna’s intuition, honed by years of navigating these ethereal encounters, suggested urgency—a plea or perhaps a warning.

Jenna’s gift had often provided comfort to grieving souls seeking resolution. Yet now, it taunted her with ambiguity, teasing at the edges of her consciousness with more questions than answers. She knew she could not force the revelation; the dead spoke on their own terms. Resigned, Jenna acknowledged the ghost’s presence as another piece in a puzzle, though perhaps not in the mystery of her sister’s absence.

Glancing at the clock, Jenna was jolted back to reality, its persistent ticking a reminder of the world beyond her haunted reverie.

If she didn’t leave now, she was going to be late.

She downed the remainder of her coffee in one gulp, the liquid cold and bitter. Grabbing her keys from the hook by the door, she stepped outside, leaving the confines of her home for the uncertainty that lay beyond. The warmth of a mid-July morning enveloped her immediately, a warm blanket that promised another sweltering summer day in Trentville, Missouri.

Today, like every day, her thoughts would turn again and again to Piper, wielding both her badge and her unique insight as tools against the silence that had stolen her sister.

But that girl in the photograph—was she a messenger or a guide? Or had she reached out from some other story entirely? Jenna’s rational mind grappled with the possibilities, the detective within her scrutinizing every angle.

With a resolute hand, she turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, a familiar sound that marked the beginning of another day’s journey. As Jenna eased her vehicle forward, she saw the familiar streets of Trentville coming alive with the rhythm of daily life. Shopkeepers unfurled awnings, and townsfolk exchanged greetings, their lives untouched by the specters that haunted Jenna’s existence.

Ahead lay another day’s journey. Jenna hoped it would hold a discovery of life—even though she knew that the spirits that visited her dreams could only come from the dead.

“Focus,” Jenna muttered to herself. With a firm grip on the wheel, she steeled herself against the fear of what lay ahead. She understood that some stones, once turned, could not be unturned.