The summer of 1997 shimmered over Crestwood's coastal edge, the air heavy with salt and the drone of cicadas. Mara—then Madame Lazare, younger, her raven hair unstreaked by gray—stood in a small kitchen, its linoleum peeling, a mug of chamomile tea cooling in her hands. Across from her sat Elora Baker, Mira's mother, her midnight hair framing a face worn by illness, her storm-gray eyes—mirrors to her daughter's—bright with urgency. The room was quiet save for the tick of a clock, and on the floor, six-year-old Mira played with a wooden horse, her auburn curls catching the sunlight, oblivious to the weight of their words."You're sure?" Lazare asked, her voice low, her opal pendant glinting. "The dream world—it's stirring, Elora. She's got your blood—walker's blood."Elora nodded, her hands trembling as she clutched a shawl. "I know—she dreams too vividly, talks of silver trees. But I'm dying, Mara—weeks, maybe. Promise me you'll watch her, guide her when it wakes."Lazare leaned forward, her gaze fierce. "I swear—she'll not face it alone. But you've got to tell her—prepare her."Elora smiled, faint but warm, and called Mira over, lifting her onto her lap. "Listen, sweet," she said, brushing a curl from Mira's face. "Promises never die—they're stronger than time, than anything. I promise I'll never leave you—not really. You hold that, always."Mira nodded, her hazel eyes wide, clutching the horse. "Promise, Mama," she echoed, the words a vow etched in her small heart.Elora kissed her forehead, tears falling, and Lazare watched, her pendant pulsing—a pact sealed, a future unwritten, as the dream world waited in the shadows.The late September breeze of 2025 whispered through Crestwood, carrying the scent of damp leaves and distant salt as Mira woke with a gasp, her body curled on a narrow cot in a locked room. The walls were bare stone, etched with faint sigils that glowed dimly, the air thick with sage and something colder—magic, ancient and unyielding. A single window, high and barred, let in slivers of moonlight, catching her auburn hair—longer now, tangled from struggle—and her hazel eyes, wide with panic and defiance. She wore a simple linen shift, her reborn body unscarred, but her mind churned with fragments: a cliff, waves, a man with starry skin, none of it clear.She didn't know her name was Mira—not yet—or that she'd been Anne, drowned and revived by Madame Lazare's sacrifice. The room, Lazare's doing, was a cage to protect her, to keep her dream-walker blood dormant until she could learn its truth. But to Mira, it was a prison, and her mother's promise—I'll never leave you—burned in her, a spark urging escape.She stood, her bare feet cold on the floor, and tested the door again—iron, unyielding, sigils flaring at her touch. "Let me out!" she shouted, her voice hoarse, pounding until her fists ached. A memory flickered—Elora's laugh, a wooden horse—but it slipped, leaving only need. She scanned the room: cot, a chipped basin, the window too high. Her eyes caught a loose stone near the corner, its sigil faded, and she knelt, prying with her fingers, desperation fueling her. It shifted, dust falling, and she worked faster, a plan forming—stack the cot, climb, break the bars.
Previously on star catcher
Months ago, Crestwood was a crucible of blood and dreams. Anne Baker, a bartender haunted by insomnia, loved Deon Travers—a man born from her childhood imagination, made real by Madame Lazare's dream dust. Their bond frayed when Anne, lonely during Deon's world tour, slept with Gary Halsey, a manipulative mayoral candidate. Gary's murder—stabbed with a bar knife—sparked a mystery, with Anne and Deon questioned as suspects, their love tested by guilt and police scrutiny. The dream world, a primal realm of silver forests and starry rivers, awoke, its Dream Eaters—hungry shadows—feeding on death's chaos. Elias, a cryptic ally, was killed next, a note warning "You're next." Deon discovered the killer: Tom, Nina's ex, a nightmare sent to punish his escape from the dream world. Anne and Lazare banished Tom, but he returned, striking a deal to control Anne, forcing her to kill Deon at their wedding. Devastated, Anne drowned herself off a cliff, only for Lazare to sacrifice herself, reviving Anne as Mira—a new woman with no memory, her dream-walker blood revealed. Deon, transformed in a starry limbo, waited for her, their love a thread across worlds.Miles from Crestwood, in a neighboring town called Haverford, Ezra Vale—once Deon Travers—stacked cans of soup on a grocery store shelf, his snow-white hair tucked under a cap, his night-sky skin hidden by long sleeves. At 29, he'd built a quiet life since waking from the starry landscape, his name chosen for its simplicity, a nod to the void he'd left behind. The store's fluorescent hum was his rhythm now, his starry transformation a secret he guarded, though hunger gnawed—a craving no food sated.By dusk, Ezra locked up, his shift done, and headed to his small apartment, where Olivia, Jackson, and Albert waited—a trio of friends who'd adopted him into their orbit. Olivia, a barista with a sharp laugh, strung fairy lights across his living room; Jackson, a mechanic, hauled in a cooler of beer; Albert, a shy coder, fiddled with a playlist of old rock. The night party was their ritual, a slice of normal Ezra craved, though his heart—still Anne's—ached in ways he couldn't name."Ezra, you're late!" Olivia teased, tossing him a beer as he stepped in, the room warm with laughter and the smell of pizza."Blame the inventory," he grinned, his sky-blue eyes—unchanged—glinting as he joined them, the cap hiding his white hair. They sprawled on mismatched chairs, trading stories: Olivia's worst customer, Jackson's broken wrench, Albert's coding bug. Ezra laughed, played along, but a hum stirred—She's out there—a dream-world echo he drowned in beer.As midnight passed, the others crashed—Olivia on the couch, Jackson and Albert in sleeping bags—leaving Ezra alone, the fairy lights dimming. Hunger surged, not for food but something deeper—nightmares, pain, the dream world's fare. He stood, his skin prickling, and stepped outside, the Haverford night quiet save for crickets.In the alley, he changed—his skin shimmering, starry flecks glowing, his form leaner, eyes blackening, teeth sharpening—not a Dream Eater, but kin, a star-born hunter forged by his limbo. He slipped into the dream world's edge—a silver haze, no forest yet—and hunted, seeking nightmares: a child's fear, a lover's betrayal, fleeting shadows he consumed. They tasted of ash, never enough, his hunger a void Anne's loss had carved. He returned, unchanged outwardly, and sat on his stoop, the stars above mocking his emptiness.Back in Crestwood, Mira freed the stone, her hands bleeding, and dragged the cot under the window, stacking the basin atop it—a wobbly tower. She climbed, her shift tearing, and gripped the bars, their iron cold, the sigils faint. Beyond, the ocean glittered, a call to freedom, her mother's promise—Never leave you—a fire in her chest. She pulled, the bars creaking, her strength fueled by a spark she didn't know—dream-walker blood, stirring.A voice hummed, faint—Mira, hold—not Lazare's, not Elora's, but hers, a name she grasped like breath. The bars bent, a gap forming, and she squeezed through, falling to the grass below, her heart racing. The night stretched wide—forest, sea, a road—and she ran, toward Haverford, toward a man with starry skin, her promise alive, the dream world's cage behind her.