GREG WOKE WITH A JUMP — his body sweaty, his breath ragged, his heart pounding as if it wanted to burst from his chest. The room was bathed in twilight, and only the diffuse moonlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, casting trembling shadows on the ceiling.
Beside him, his wife, Alissa Monroe Evans, startled, waking from a light sleep.
— Is everything alright, darling? — she asked, her voice still hoarse with sleep, her eyes half-closed.
Greg rubbed his face with both hands, trying to dispel the fog of the nightmare that insisted on returning night after night.
— That same damned dream — he murmured, without looking at her.
Alissa watched him silently for a few seconds before approaching, enveloping him in a protective embrace.
— It's just your restless mind, darling, you've been working too hard — she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.
He sighed deeply, but the unease in his eyes betrayed that something was consuming him from within.
— Have you ever heard of a John Dee? — he asked suddenly, as if the mere pronunciation of that name carried with it an ancient and indecipherable weight.
Alissa frowned, trying to associate the name with something familiar.
— The only John Deere I know is that tractor company in Illinois — she replied with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood.
Greg let out a short, humorless laugh. Of course he knew John Deere, the legendary manufacturer of agricultural machinery, a symbol of American progress, but the name echoing in his mind was not that of a 19th-century businessman.
It was something... much older.
— It's the middle of the night... — he thought. — She must have mixed up the names.
— I'll see about that tomorrow... — he finally said, trying to end the conversation.
— You mean today — she corrected, yawning — it's almost four in the morning.
Greg smiled and leaned down to kiss her forehead.
— It's true... you'd better sleep, darling. We'll talk about it later.
Alissa pulled the blanket up to her chin, settling back down.
— Just don't go buying me a tractor to drive around New York — she joked sleepily. — We already have enough problems.
Greg let out a short, genuine laugh this time.
— Of course not, darling. We already have enough traffic here without me inventing more trouble. Aren't the surprise U2 concerts paralyzing downtown enough already?
— You're famous, darling, but not that famous — she teased with a lazy smile.
— One day — Greg replied, lying down again — they might say the same about me.
Alissa chuckled softly, turning to her side, and within minutes she fell asleep again, breathing softly, but Greg remained awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His mind was spinning in ever-deepening spirals. The images from the dream still burned in his memory: symbols drawn in blood, a stone tower under the storm, voices murmuring in Latin... and that name, repeated like a curse...
John Dee.
He turned to the bedside clock. 4:03 AM. The ticking seemed to mock his insomnia. He tried to close his eyes, but the thought struck him like an icy blade:
In 1589, there were no John Deere tractors, much less U2.