The dreams came every night after that.Different scenarios. Different ages. But always the same ending.Rosie dying.The second night, I dreamed of her at age five. Playing in a park. Running. Then—nothing. Just her small body on the ground. Paramedics. People crying.The third night, she was seven. In a school. Fire alarms. Smoke. Her face in a window, screaming.The fourth night, ten years old. Swimming. Going under. Not coming back up.Each dream was vivid. Detailed. Specific. I could see the clothes she wore. Hear the exact words people spoke. Feel the temperature of the air.They weren't normal nightmares.They were premonitions.By the end of the first week, I looked like death. Dark circles under my eyes. Hands shaking from too much coffee and too little sleep. I was terrified to close my eyes. Terrified of what I'd see."Elena." Calloway found me in the kitchen at three AM, staring at cold coffee. "You can't keep doing this."
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