When I wake up the next morning, I see Ryder has left a note at my bedside table. I prop myself up on my elbow, eyes scanning over his messy, endearing handwriting.

I had to leave for work early since it's a longer commute from here, and you looked too precious to wake. Especially in my shirt ;)

I'm sorry if I got heated last night - I have a hard time with my emotions when it comes to talking about our past. I hope you can understand. I know we still need to have a conversation about it - let's try again sometime.

For what it's worth, you have my promise now that I will always be here for you - I'm just a call or text away anytime you need me...in any way you need me.

Yours,

Ryder

His note is accompanied by a cup of coffee that he made for me. He knows me far too well. I feel bad that we didn't get a chance to get any type of closure with our conversation last night, but I find comfort in the fact that things are a lot better between us than they've been in a while.

***

I'd requested a few days off of work to settle into my new house and get everything unpacked and organized. But with how chaotic life has been recently, unpacking has been the last thing on my mind. As if the bizarre ghost events have not been enough to keep me distracted, the reappearance of Ryder into my life has further complicated things.

I should probably get around to organizing, but there's one more thing I need to do first.

Mentally piecing together all the clues I've picked up on so far, I crack open my laptop again and search "Eli Remington motorcycle accident".

A handful of articles pop up, confirming what the cashier had told me. Eli, formally known as Elliott, was found one morning by his brother, Marcus, in what seemed to be a motorcycle accident; he'd hit a tree at high speed and died on impact.

None of the articles confirm or deny if it was a suicidal crash, although some of them briefly speculate on the possibility.

As I scan through the articles, one of them has a photo of him. Windblown chestnut brown hair, brooding eyes, leather jacket and black Converse sneakers. He's leaning against his bike in the picture, exuding an air of confidence but a touch of softness at the same time.

As I look at the photo on my computer, my vision slowly starts to blur and the screen starts to flicker. I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to bring the world around me back into focus.

Before I can really start to panic, the picture in front of me suddenly melts into my reality. One moment, I'm sitting at my desk, and the next, I'm standing outside in the driveway, a warm breeze softly rustling the greenery around me. The smell of spring wraps itself around my senses.

My breath hitches in my throat when I look up to see a man in front of me, casually leaning against his bike, his face hidden by a motorcycle helmet with a dark visor.

I can't help but take a quick glance over my shoulder to see if he's looking towards someone else, but there's no one behind me and no one else around us. I can't see his eyes but I feel their heat on me. I have a feeling I know who this is.

I try to speak, but something prevents any words from leaving my throat.

He holds out a hand towards me and I hesitate, not sure where this is going to lead.

As he steps closer, I finally take his hand, his fingers ice cold in mine.

He leads me over to the bike and grabs another helmet, handing it to me. As he mounts the bike, I dazedly strap it on and get on behind him, twisting my hands in my lap nervously.

He glances at me over his shoulder, eyes still hidden by his visor.

He slowly reaches behind him to take my hands and gently wrap them around his waist. Taking that as permission to lean in closer to him, I tighten my grip encircling his waist as he takes off. He smells of wood smoke and cologne; it's oddly intoxicating and I feel a strange rush of some inexplicable emotion.

We cruise the calm backroads of the town, warm wind embracing us, the smell of sunshine and lavender in the air. There's something so freeing about riding with him that it makes me forget I'm supposed to be scared out of my mind right now.

He slows down and finally comes to a stop in front of a worn looking building at the side of a cobblestoned street. There are several cars parked on the street near it, but there are no markings to indicate what's inside. I hop off the bike and take off my helmet, wondering why we've stopped here.

He takes his helmet off too, and my eyes quickly graze over his sculpted jawline, high cheekbones, and sparkling, honeyed eyes.

My suspicions were correct - it is Eli. The man from the photos - now standing in front of me, decidedly not dead at the moment. My brain struggles to make sense of it.

He silently nods towards the front entrance of the building, and taking his cue, I open up the door, small bells delicately chiming to announce our arrival.

The familiar, comforting scent of ink and paper suddenly pervades my senses. It's a cozy little bookstore. Floor to ceiling shelves line the room, and a pink carpeted stairway spirals upwards towards a second floor. I also detect the rich scent of coffee, a little cafe tucked away in the corner of the store. My mom would swoon if she saw this place - she has a deeply rooted love for local bookstores, especially hole-in-the-wall ones like this.

I look back at Eli, and he raises his eyebrows, flashing me a warm smile.

Bewildered by the experience, I walk into the bookstore and start browsing the shelves, my fingers hungrily skimming over all the worn titles. I know a plethora of fantasy worlds, royal kingdoms, and sweeping romances await behind the pages, and it's always hard to decide on just one alternate reality to sink myself into.

Something about this encounter - hang-out? date? kidnapping?? - feels strangely warm and casual. Any traces of fear or tension have somehow evaporated from my heart. I lose myself wandering the endless shelves for a few minutes until Eli gently taps on my shoulder and hands me a hot pumpkin latte that he must've gotten from the coffee shop. My heart flutters in my chest. Does he remember that I made this drink at home?

I recollect how I'd come back to my bookshelves perfectly organized, one book laying open, and my face flushes as I remember the quote.

My eyes connect with his, and a warm, knowing look crosses his gaze, eyes crinkling slightly around the edges. Since we can't seem to speak, our eyes have to do all the talking.

To my surprise, he also hands me a book. It's a maroon hardcover book, the title embossed directly onto the cover in bright gold, curlicue letters.

Beyond the Mortal Realm: How to Communicate with Spirits

My hands are suddenly shaking from nervous tension more than I'd care to admit, my breath catches in my throat, and in my anxiety, I accidentally drop the book.

It falls with a crashing thud that unexpectedly shatters through my senses; the world in front of me wildly contorts and the calm patterns of sunlight streaming through the windows start to flicker into a kaleidoscope of confusing rays.

I suddenly shudder awake, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I'm back at my desk at home, head resting on my arms at my desk. I sit straight up quickly, relief flooding into my body. I'm not going crazy - It was only a dream.

Gingerly stretching my limbs and closing my laptop, still feeling high on the sense of relief, I call Amelia.

She picks up on the first ring. "Any new developments on your ghostly lover boy?" she asks immediately, her tone already ravenous for information on the other end of the phone.

"Yes, actually," I say, laughing at her eagerness, and I hear her gasp.

"Mike, get over here!" I hear her call out, before her full attention shifts back to me. "You're on speaker now, just so you know. So what happened?"

Amelia and Mike listen, enthralled, as I fill them in on what I learned from the neighbor and recount the chaotic events of the dream to them.

"Hold on, Stella. I'm looking through my dream interpretation book right now to see if I can figure out what this means - well, beyond the obvious of course. Clearly he wants you to try to contact him somehow," Amelia says.

For a few moments, I listen to her tunelessly humming and flipping through the pages.

Finally, she exclaims, "Here it is! Dreaming about a location you've never been to." She clears her throat, starting to read aloud directly from her book. "Visiting a new place in a dream may indicate a deep physical or emotional connection to the location. If the location is not real, it may be symbolic of your inner desires. If the location IS real, it may indicate you have unresolved business or emotions attached to the place and your dream should be treated as a calling to visit it."

I chew my lip while soaking in her words, trying to decipher if there's any real meaning behind this interpretation. Though Amelia is a firm believer in dream theories, I've always been more of a skeptic. I never thought I'd see the day where I might start to take it as legitimate advice.

"Does this bookstore actually exist in town?" Mike asks, and it warms my heart that he's giving Amelia's interpretation some merit. If I'm a skeptic, he's a non-believer.

I try a quick search online, but it shows the closest bookstore is nearly an hour away. In my dream, we rode the motorbike for a mere ten to fifteen minutes.

"Hmmm." I rack my brain, trying to remember the details of the building. "The building was completely unmarked and I don't remember the street names...but I do remember the ride to the store pretty well because the dream started in my driveway. I may be able to drive there from memory and see if it's a real place."

"I think it's worth checking out," Amelia says. "If it's not real, then maybe the dream really is something your brain just conjured up because you've been thinking about this man so much. But if the bookstore actually exists...well...it's probably time to move out, Stella. This situation is going a little too far, even for my liking."

"Do you want us to come over this weekend and go to the bookstore with you?" Mike offers.

"No, it's okay. I'll keep you updated," I say, already grabbing my keys.