Dreams Don't Become Stories

Story  ·  Ruvina  ·  Sep 20, 2025

Under the lamp at the Lodge, Yu sat in silence, watching.
No question. Just a look that said: tell me.
Each drip of water from the tunnel walls pressed at my back.
So I dropped my voice a little, and started talking.

The moment a dream is dug out, it finds its owner.
It rises toward them — kan… kan… — ringing through the dark,
returning to the one it always belonged to.
But once it hits the light above, it dissolves.
No shape left. No story.
It just sinks into that person's depths,
shifting something in how they feel, how they move.

That's why there's no proof left of anything done here.
No record of what was dug. No receipt of delivery.
Even the dreams I leave on the shelf vanish on their own within a few days.
What stays with me is temperature, and smell —
like running a hand through air that was just occupied.

You want to know if there's something worth doing in that?
…Yeah.
There is.
The moment I touch a dream, my heart picks up.
That's the poison part. But it's also how I know I'm still here.

And being able to say it out loud.
To say dreams are poison and not have the person beside me flinch or disappear.
To have someone stay — and keep watching, silence included.
That ends up being a relief I didn't expect.

My work doesn't leave a story behind.
But maybe that's exactly why it flickers — like a lamp that stays lit.
…That's what I tell myself, when I reach for another dream.