The Messenge (Iva and Nick) novel Chapter 384

The Weight of Dreams

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The Weight of Dreams

months had passed since Youssef entered the world, and Iva felt more exhausted than ever.

The days were a blur of feedings, diaper changes, and sleepless nights.

Youssef was growing so fast, each day bringing a new milestone-a first smile, a first coo, the first time he rolled over on his own. Her heart swelled with pride and love at every new discovery, her

soul nourished by the innocent joy of her son.

But her body was paying the price.

She moved through her days in a haze of fatigue, her muscles aching, her eyes heavy-lidded. Youssef was a handful-a baby with a fierce will and endless energy, who seemed determined to keep his mother on her toes at all times. She was so grateful for the nuns, whose kindness and support had been a lifeline. Without them, she didn’t know how she would have managed.

But, the sleeplessness was not Youssef’s fault.

It was the dreams.

Every night, without fail, the same nightmare visited her. She found herself in a vast, dark landscape, the sky heavy with storm clouds that churned and twisted like living things. The ground was cold and barren, and the air was thick with an oppressive weight that made it hard to breathe.

And then, he appeared.

A man. Impossible tall, his frame towering and powerful, his presence radiating a primal terror that made her blood run cold. His aura was suffocating, pressing down on her like a physical force, making her knees weak and her heart pound.

She could never see his face clearly. His features were always shrouded in shadow, obscured by the darkness that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. But she could feel his eyes on her- those eyes, dark and intense, burning with a hunger that made her want to flee.

And she always did.

She ran through the nightmare landscape, her feet pounding against the cold ground, her lungs burning with the effort. The man followed, his presence relentless, his voice a low, rumbling growl that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

*You cannot run from me. You cannot hide. I will find you.*

She always woke with a scream, her body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

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In the beginning, the nuns had rushed to her room, their faces etched with concern, their hands

gentle as they soothed her back to sleep. But as the weeks passed and the nightmares continued,

eir visits became less frequent. They had grown accustomed to her screams, accepting them as

a sad but inevitable part of her nightly routine.

It had started in her second week after Youssef’s birth.

Now, nearly six months later, it was still the same.

Iva was drained.

The exhaustion was a constant companion, a weight that pressed down on her shoulders and made every task feel like an uphill battle. She had tried everything to stop the dreams-herbal teas, meditation, even sleeping with a small light on. Nothing worked.

The nightmares were always waiting for her.

And with each passing night, the man in her dreams became more vivid. She still couldn’t see his face clearly, but his form was becoming sharper, more defined. She could see the broadness of his shoulders, the power in his stride, the way his presence seemed to swallow all the light around

him.

And his eyes.

Those dark, intense eyes.

They were the eyes of her son.

She knew, without a doubt, that the man in her dreams was Youssef’s father. The connection was undeniable, a thread of fate that bound them together across the chasm of her fractured memory. And the constant dreaming made her change her mind: she didn’t want to remember him. She didn’t want to know who he was or what he had done. The nightmares were already too much to

bear.

But they wouldn’t stop.

Night after night, she ran.

Night after night, he chased her.

And she was growing weaker.

Iva sat at the edge of her bed, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on the small window where the first light of dawn was beginning to creep through.

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Youssef slept peacefully in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling with the gentle rhythm of sleep.

She watched him, her heart aching with a love so fierce it almost hurt.

He was her reason to keep going. Her reason to fight through the exhaustion and the fear, Her

reason to believe that there was still hope, still light, still something worth living for.

She rose from the bed and crossed to his crib, her hand reaching down to brush against his soft

cheek.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

Youssef stirred, his tiny hand reaching up to grasp her finger.

Iva smiled through her tears.

But even as she held her son, the shadow of the nightmare man lingered at the edges of her consciousness, a dark presence that refused to be ignored.

The morning light was soft and pale, filtering through the small window of the infirmary where Iva sat with Sister Margaret.

The older nun had been watching her with growing concern.

Sister Margaret was the oldest of the nuns, her face lined with the map of a long and faithful life. She had seen suffering in all its forms-physical, emotional, spiritual-and she had learned to recognize the signs of a soul in distress.

Iva was a soul in distress.

“Child,” Sister Margaret said, her voice gentle but firm, “we are all worried about you. You’ve grown so thin. Your frame is so frail. You barely eat, and when you do, you push the food around your plate like it’s a chore.”

Iva looked down at her hands, her fingers thin and pale against the fabric of her dress.

“I’m fine,” she said, the words automatic, hollow.

Sister Margaret reached out and took her hand, her grip warm and steady.

“You are not fine, Iva. And pretending otherwise will not make it true. You cannot go on like this.”

Iva’s throat tightened.

She wanted to argue. Wanted to deflect. But the words wouldn’t come.

“I have nightmares,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Every night. The same one.

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The Weight of Dreams

Someone is chasing me.”

Sister Margaret’s eyes softened with understanding.

“Someone? Or something?”

Iva hesitated.

“Someone,” she said carefully. “A man. I can never see his face clearly. But he’s always there. Always following. Always… hunting.”

The nun nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful.

“And in your dream, you run?”

“Every time. I run and I run, and he keeps coming. And I always wake up screaming.”

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Sister Margaret was silent for a moment, her eyes distant, as if she were searching for the right

words.

“Have you ever tried stopping?” she asked finally.

Iva blinked, confused.

“Stopping?”

The nun’s smile was gentle, her eyes crinkling with warmth.

“In your dream. Instead of running, have you ever tried turning around? Facing the presence? Seeing what it wants?”

Iva shook her head slowly.

“No. I never even considered it. I just… run.”

Sister Margaret noded.

“Perhaps it’s time to try something different, child. In the end, it’s just a dream. It cannot hurt you. But running from it, night after night, is wearing you down. Maybe if you stop and face it, you might find that it’s not as frightening as you imagine.”

Iva stared at her, the idea settling into her mind like a seed.

She had never thought of it that way. She had always assumed that the only option was to flee, to escape, to survive.

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