I was three years old when I first encountered a recurring dream that would etch itself into my memory forever—a vision of a giant, imposing full moon, its surface drenched in a deep, haunting crimson, suspended in an expanse of impenetrable darkness.
From this eerie backdrop emerged a pair of eyes, glowing like fiery embers against the darkness and staring at me from a far distant land, but I could see those eyes as if they were mere feet away. Those eyes were blood-red and mesmerizing, yet they held an intensity that seemed to pierce through the fabric of my being.
In a moment that should have filled me with terror, I was instead overwhelmed by an inexplicable wave of sadness—a sorrow so profound that tears began to stream down my cheeks. When I awoke that morning, my pillows were damp and my tears continued to fall as if there was no stop to them.
I only had one question on my mind: why would I feel so sad upon seeing those fearful blood-red eyes?
As the months passed, the dream returned to me time and time again, those blood-red eyes lingering at the center of my visions. Each encounter felt like a reunion with an old friend, but the sadness they carried only grew heavier and more complex. It became clear to me that those eyes were not merely a figment of my imagination; they were vessels of sorrow—pain that resonated within me even as a child. No matter how desperately I sought to understand, to comprehend the source of that grief, it eluded me, dancing just out of reach like a fleeting shadow.
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When I reached the age of four, the dreams shifted and deepened, taking on vivid forms that began to unveil the messages they held for me. No longer were they mere fragments of the full moon in the back; they became intricate narratives, rich with imagery and significance, urging me to pay attention.
One particular dream remains etched in my mind, a haunting scene that felt both ominous and strangely captivating. I found myself in a desolate land, where a group of crows swarmed around a broken throne, its once-majestic structure now reduced to ruins. The air was thick with tension, and the crows moved like dark shadows, their raucous caws echoing through the stillness like thunder rumbling during a storm.
Amidst this chaos, something caught my eye—a piece of cloth, tattered and worn, lying amidst the rubble. It fluttered gently in the wind, almost as if it were beckoning me closer. As I approached, I noticed a symbol emblazoned upon it—a fan; red on the top and white on the bottom.
As I stood there, engulfed in the chaos and mystery of my dream, I felt the weight of destiny pressing upon me—a sense that these visions were not random but rather a call to something greater.
But, just what exactly it was?
