In The Eyes of Truth

Dreams have always fascinated me. They're intangible, fleeting things, like whispers from a place I can't quite reach. But lately, they've been more vivid than ever. They don't feel like stories my mind conjures up while I sleep; they feel real. Too real. As if they're echoes of something I've lived before.
 
Why do dreams feel so real sometimes?
 
I walked through the dimly lit streets, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, trying to make sense of the question that had plagued me since the moment Arnold mentioned it. His words haunted me like a song stuck in my head. "Have you ever felt like your dreams are connected to memories you've forgotten?"
 
I couldn't stop thinking about it. My dreams weren't just strange; they felt significant. Like puzzle pieces to a life I couldn't remember. They weren't random either. They followed a strange pattern: castles, battles, camaraderie. And always, there was that same figure, a squire wielding a sword, training diligently under the shadow of a mighty knight. It wasn't just a dream; it was as if I was there.
 
Even now, I could feel the weight of the sword in my hands. The ache in my arms after countless hours of practice. The rush of adrenaline as I charged into battle, my heart pounding in my chest. But then I would wake up, and it would all disappear, leaving me with a hollow feeling I couldn't explain.
 
The streetlights buzzed faintly overhead as I turned a corner, the shadows stretching and warping across the pavement. The world felt unusually quiet tonight, the kind of silence that made every step feel louder than it should. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, trying to shake off the unease creeping up my spine.
 
It was then that I heard it. A shuffling sound behind me. I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse without making it obvious. A man was following me, his movements slow and deliberate. My heartbeat quickened. The air around me seemed to thicken, every instinct screaming that something wasn't right.
 
The man quickened his pace, closing the distance between us. Panic surged through me, and I started walking faster, my mind racing. What did he want? Money? My phone? I wasn't carrying much, but that didn't matter. I needed to get away.

 
"Hey!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife. I didn't stop. My legs moved on their own, each step more frantic than the last.
 
But before I could break into a run, he lunged. His hand grabbed my shoulder, jerking me back with surprising force. I stumbled, nearly losing my balance. "Give me your wallet!" he snarled, his other hand brandishing a knife that glinted under the streetlight.
 
Fear clawed at my chest. My mind screamed at me to do something, anything, but I felt paralyzed. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. A stick lying a few feet away, half-hidden in the gutter.
 
Something inside me shifted. It was the strangest feeling, like an echo from one of my dreams. The squire's training flashed through my mind: the stance, the grip, the determination. Before I knew it, I was moving.
 
I dove for the stick, my fingers closing around its rough surface as I rolled to my feet. The man laughed, a cruel sound that sent shivers down my spine. "What are you gonna do with that?" he sneered, taking a step forward.
 
But I didn't hesitate. My hands moved as if they had done this a thousand times before. I gripped the stick like a sword, my body falling into a stance that felt natural, instinctive. The man lunged at me, but I sidestepped, swinging the stick with all my might. It connected with his arm, the impact jolting up my arms.
 
He cursed, staggering back, but I didn't stop. I moved with a fluidity that surprised even me, each strike precise and deliberate. The man tried to retaliate, but I was faster, my movements guided by an unseen force. Finally, with a sharp crack, the stick struck his hand, sending the knife clattering to the ground. He stumbled, clutching his wrist, and then turned and ran, disappearing into the shadows.
 
I stood there, breathing heavily, the stick still clutched in my hands. My heart was racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins, but there was something else. A strange sense of familiarity. It wasn't just a fight. It felt like training, like I was back in one of my dreams, wielding a sword as a squire.
 
I stared at the stick, turning it over in my hands. It wasn't much, just a piece of wood, but in that moment, it had felt like something more. I couldn't explain it, but it was as if the squire's skills, his instincts, had bled into my reality. And for a brief moment, I felt like I was him.
 
As the adrenaline began to fade, I started walking again, my thoughts swirling. The stick was still in my hand, and without thinking, I raised it like a sword, mimicking the training movements from my dreams. I swung it, thrust it, parried invisible blows. Each motion felt deliberate, precise, like muscle memory I shouldn't have.
 
My arms ached after a few minutes, the stick heavier than it looked, but I didn't stop. There was a strange satisfaction in the movements, a sense of purpose I couldn't describe. It was as if I was connecting with something buried deep within me, something I had forgotten.
 
Eventually, I lowered the stick, my breath coming in short gasps. My body felt different. Not stronger exactly, but there was a subtle shift, like the tiniest spark of growth. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there.
 
As I continued walking home, the feeling of being watched crept over me. I glanced over my shoulder, but the street was empty. Still, the sensation lingered, prickling at the back of my neck. I couldn't shake the feeling that someone, or something, was out there, observing me from the shadows.
 
When I finally reached my house, I leaned the stick against the wall by the door and went inside. My mind was still racing, the events of the night replaying over and over. The man, the fight, the stick. It all felt surreal, like a scene from one of my dreams brought to life.
 
But it was more than that. Arnold's words echoed in my mind once again. "Have you ever felt like your dreams are connected to memories you've forgotten?"
 
For the first time, I started to wonder if he was right. The dreams, the squire, the strange instincts that had saved me tonight. It couldn't just be a coincidence. There was something more to it, something I didn't understand yet.
 
I sat down on my bed, staring at the ceiling as questions filled my mind. Why did my dreams feel so real? Why did they feel like memories? And why did I feel like I was slowly becoming the person I dreamt about?
 
As the night wore on, sleep refused to come. The stick by the door seemed to call to me, a silent reminder of the questions I had yet to answer. And deep down, I knew that this was only the beginning.