The Gloves That Touch Dreams

Story  ·  Ruvina  ·  Sep 20, 2025

Deep in the tunnel, a shadow caught the light racing along the rails.
Ruvina adjusted her gloves and scooped a faint cluster of dream into her palm.
The light trembled as if resisting, deepening to red, pulsing.
Without so much as a furrow of the brow, she held that pulse,
and pressed it back into a crack in the rock.
One flash of light, a residual warmth — then the dream dissolved into the deep.

Into the silence fell only the drip of water, the sound of digging,
and her few words.
"Unstable. …Sending it back."
The voice was matter-of-fact. Like a rite.

The danger is always there.
Dreams sometimes run too hot, and throw even an observer's heartbeat off.
When pressed back into the wall, an agitated dream bites through the gloves.
Touch one bare-handed, and there's no coming back.
The red that lingered behind her eyes was proof of that.

And still, she reached out.
"Someone has to do it."
With those words, the back that received the faint light
looked as though it was carrying something heavier than the tunnel itself.

No result stays here. No record remains.
Only the trace of having passed through, pressed into the chest —
and then the dream is gone.
That vanishing moment — she was watching it, without question.