Was it a dream, Mollie?

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Mollie woke up. The light was soft, as if made of cotton wool, and the blanket above him smelled of lavender and stories. He was still wearing his nightshirt with the embroidered stars, and his stocking cap hung askew over one ear. For a moment, he just lay there, his eyes half-closed, as if he could hold on to the dream a little longer. Had he really been to San Francisco? Had Percy the sea eagle carried him across the Golden Gate Bridge? Or had it all just been a thought that had crept out of his mattress in the night? His room was silent. Only the clock on the shelf ticked softly, as if whispering to him: "Time passes—but not all of it disappears." He sat up. His bed creaked comfortably—it was made of dark wood, old, and full of memories. Next to the window stood a small dresser with a glass apple that glittered softly. On the floor lay a few well-read books, a notebook with ink blots, and a small shoe he'd missed weeks ago. On the walls hung pictures of places you only know if you've already visited them in your heart: a lighthouse in the fog, a bridge of light, a path leading into the blue sky. Mollie shuffled to the window, his pointed cap almost slipping over his eyes. Outside, the meadow bloomed in all colors, as if spring itself had worked with a brush overnight. Tulips, violets, dandelions, and bluebells swayed in the breeze. Butterflies fluttered between the stalks, a dragonfly hovered in the air like an idea. He pressed his forehead against the windowpane. A hint of something hung in the air—not just the scent of flowers, but a memory. "Perhaps both are true," Mollie murmured. "Perhaps some dreams are simply too real to be just dreams." He reached for the small wooden book on the windowsill and leafed through it – blank pages, except for one, at the very back. There, written in gold ink, was: "You were there. And you will travel again." Mollie smiled. His pointed cap danced with his every movement. He stepped into his slippers, which looked like little hedgehogs, and made his way to the kitchen. The area already smelled of tea and adventure. The pot hummed softly, as if it knew more than it was revealing. Even as the water quietly ran into the cup, Mollie wondered whether the next dream was already waiting for him. Or whether he was already in the middle of it.