He sat up in his bed with eyes wide opened. He was breathless, cold sweats running down from his temple.

His eyes glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It is only one o’clock. That dream awakened him again in the early morning.

He set his breath for a moment. His mind was busy thinking about the dream, dream that had haunted him for years, all his life. Strangely, he didn’t remember at all. The dream looked vague and blurry every time he tried to chase it.

All he knew, in a large field, there were only two persons, him, and that woman. Brownish red leaves falling and hovering around them was a great moment that is hard to be missed, but his focus is only on the woman in front of him.

Then, seconds later, the woman fell, blood spattered over his eyes, she died.

He was the one who killed her. With his own hand, he killed the woman.

Suddenly he felt something rolled down on his cheeks. He wiped it unconsciously; with the half feeling that didn’t understand why he was crying. Why? Was it because of his guilty feeling? But, why he has to feel that? It was just a dream, right?

Yes, it was a dream. It should be a dream.

A nightmare, for real.