The forest was quiet, save for the rustling leaves beneath our feet. The light had begun to fade, casting long shadows between the trees, but I didn’t mind. You were by my side, guiding me along the familiar path. In this dreamlike haze, we were heading to your father’s tool shed—a place that felt oddly important, though it didn’t exist in real life.

When we reached the shed, the air grew still, heavy. We stepped inside to organize the tools, though neither of us questioned why. There was a strange calm about it as if we were trying to distract ourselves from something lurking just beyond the trees.

Suddenly, the calm shattered.

A man emerged from the forest, his face twisted with anger. He shouted, his words sharp, filled with venom. I froze as he lunged at us, fists swinging, a flurry of violence. But then, just as quickly, you fought back. Together, we managed to knock him to the ground. I should have felt relief—but I didn’t.

The man lay there, breathing shallowly, and for some reason, we didn’t run. We didn’t leave or call for help. Instead, we went back to the tools. The situation's logic slipped away, as if we were characters in a bad movie, following some invisible script. I knew we should do something more, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t think clearly.

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Then, out of nowhere, he rose.

I was walking past him when I felt it—a hand, cold and sudden, clamping onto my arm. I turned, and there he was, his eyes wild, a knife glinting in his other hand. His grip tightened, and he pressed the blade to my throat. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. My mind screamed to act, to run, but my body remained frozen in place.

“Don’t move,” he hissed. “Do what I say.”

You were there, standing just a few feet away, your face pale with fear. My heart pounded in my chest, drowning out all other sounds. He made demands, though I couldn’t hear them clearly—everything blurred at that moment. The world felt distant like I was watching it from outside my own body.

Then, I saw it. The axe, lying just beside you.

In one swift motion, you grabbed it. The next thing I knew, it flew through the air, striking him with a sickening thud. He crumpled to the ground, motionless, as the blunt side of the axe hit his head. You didn’t stop. Again and again, the axe came down, and I stood there, paralyzed, watching you.

When it was over, the silence returned.

We left the shed without looking back, telling ourselves it was over. That no one would find us. That no one even knew we had come here. But the pit in my stomach told me otherwise. As we hurried away, the logic of the dream unraveled, and the questions crept in.

Why hadn’t we called the police? Why hadn’t we run when we had the chance? And why, after everything, did it feel like the nightmare wasn’t over?