JUNE SELWYN
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Date: September 9, 2025 | @Finnegan Connor | Dialogue: X
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Lunch hadn't sat well with her. A few bites of soup, half a roll. The rest of her appetite had evaporated under the weight of the miserable night she'd had. She didn't look sleepy, precisely, but the tiredness clung to her skin.
Five minutes early became fifteen as she crossed the threshold into the library.
June wove through the rows of shelves and chose a table beside a tall north window, away from clusters of students, yet not tucked in a corner as if she were hiding. She wouldn't hide, although she would be lying if she said she hadn't considered it.
She set her things down with deliberate care. Her notebook, then to the left her copy of Dream Oracle, an ink bottle between the two, a journal with a quill poking out of the top, marking the page she had written her dream on.
She opened it to review before Finn arrived. The page still looked raw. Too honest. Her handwriting, normally neat, leaned slightly rightwards, edged with urgency. A faint dot of ink in the upper margin betrayed the shaky wandlight she'd written it by. The dream hadn't let her sleep afterwards; she'd lain awake listening to the creaks and sighs of the dormitory rafters, telling herself it was only a dream and not … anything else.
She reread what she had written.
June snapped the journal shut with a quiet thump and put her hand on the cover as if to lock it. It had only been a dream; not prophecy, not warning. Her brain was weaving together fragments of memories, as is the case with the human mind. This is what dreams were for.
Yet there was a tightening in her stomach that she dared not name. June moved the journal a little to the right and took out a new sheet of parchment for the discussion.
The sound of footsteps came from behind her down the aisle. Light, quick, and unfamiliar. June paid them no mind.
Then a second set came in from the library door. They were slower, marked in the way that certain sounds become ingrained after years of proximity.
She straightened up and let her eyes dwell on the window for a moment. The trees outside were swaying in a mild breeze.
The footsteps reached the end of her row.
She lifted her eyes to meet him.
Five minutes early became fifteen as she crossed the threshold into the library.
June wove through the rows of shelves and chose a table beside a tall north window, away from clusters of students, yet not tucked in a corner as if she were hiding. She wouldn't hide, although she would be lying if she said she hadn't considered it.
She set her things down with deliberate care. Her notebook, then to the left her copy of Dream Oracle, an ink bottle between the two, a journal with a quill poking out of the top, marking the page she had written her dream on.
She opened it to review before Finn arrived. The page still looked raw. Too honest. Her handwriting, normally neat, leaned slightly rightwards, edged with urgency. A faint dot of ink in the upper margin betrayed the shaky wandlight she'd written it by. The dream hadn't let her sleep afterwards; she'd lain awake listening to the creaks and sighs of the dormitory rafters, telling herself it was only a dream and not … anything else.
She reread what she had written.
I'm standing in a corridor I don't recognise. Stone walls, but too narrow, too tall, like the building hasn't decided what it's supposed to be yet. Everything feels unfinished.
Two doors at the far end. Identical. Heavy-framed in wood, with brass handles and no markings. I head for the right door first. The floor shifts under my feet, tilting hard, like the lurch of a ship in some storm. I grab the wall to keep upright.
The more I try to reach the right door, the farther it slides away.
I head for the left door instead.
The floor steadies. I reach for the handle. It's warm. Warmer than it should be. I push it open.
A sitting room. Mine. It's home. But everything is wrong.
The furniture is backwards, the pictures are hanging with their faces to the walls, and the fireplace is burning with bluish flames, giving no warmth at all. In the middle of the room is a chair, a wooden one that we only take out when the number of guests is greater than the number of seats.
On the seat is a paper bird. Someone had drawn just an eye on one side. Just one. The other side is blank. I pick it up. The door slams shut behind me.
The blue flames are extinguished. The paintings are talking in whispers. I can't hear what they are saying, but I can sense their tone. Disappointment? No. Not quite. More like... recognition.
In my hand, the paper bird twitches, as if it wants to unfold but doesn't have the strength. I try to smooth out the creases on its wings. But the paper tears, a rip right through the center.
A cold draft blows across the whole room. I turn my head in the direction where the door should have been.
It's not there.
It was never there.
I wish it were always there.
Two doors at the far end. Identical. Heavy-framed in wood, with brass handles and no markings. I head for the right door first. The floor shifts under my feet, tilting hard, like the lurch of a ship in some storm. I grab the wall to keep upright.
The more I try to reach the right door, the farther it slides away.
I head for the left door instead.
The floor steadies. I reach for the handle. It's warm. Warmer than it should be. I push it open.
A sitting room. Mine. It's home. But everything is wrong.
The furniture is backwards, the pictures are hanging with their faces to the walls, and the fireplace is burning with bluish flames, giving no warmth at all. In the middle of the room is a chair, a wooden one that we only take out when the number of guests is greater than the number of seats.
On the seat is a paper bird. Someone had drawn just an eye on one side. Just one. The other side is blank. I pick it up. The door slams shut behind me.
The blue flames are extinguished. The paintings are talking in whispers. I can't hear what they are saying, but I can sense their tone. Disappointment? No. Not quite. More like... recognition.
In my hand, the paper bird twitches, as if it wants to unfold but doesn't have the strength. I try to smooth out the creases on its wings. But the paper tears, a rip right through the center.
A cold draft blows across the whole room. I turn my head in the direction where the door should have been.
It's not there.
It was never there.
I wish it were always there.
June snapped the journal shut with a quiet thump and put her hand on the cover as if to lock it. It had only been a dream; not prophecy, not warning. Her brain was weaving together fragments of memories, as is the case with the human mind. This is what dreams were for.
Yet there was a tightening in her stomach that she dared not name. June moved the journal a little to the right and took out a new sheet of parchment for the discussion.
The sound of footsteps came from behind her down the aisle. Light, quick, and unfamiliar. June paid them no mind.
Then a second set came in from the library door. They were slower, marked in the way that certain sounds become ingrained after years of proximity.
She straightened up and let her eyes dwell on the window for a moment. The trees outside were swaying in a mild breeze.
The footsteps reached the end of her row.
She lifted her eyes to meet him.
