Mystical Celestial Box of Forgotten Dreams

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In a side wing of the old academy, between dust-covered shelves and unread manuscripts, stood a table made of dark ash. The box rested on it. No one knew who had brought it there. Some claimed it had come with the last director; others that no one had ever brought it—it had simply been there one morning. Like a thought that had thought of itself. The box was made of dark metal, with decorations that couldn't be clearly assigned to any era. Golden lines traced circles, stars, and symbols reminiscent of clockworks and star charts, but without any known order. On the lid glowed a wheel of twelve segments, each bearing a tiny symbol that could only be read in slanted light. The pages were crisscrossed with mysterious glyphs that seemed to whisper if one looked too long. No one dared to open it. No one ever remembered opening it. And yet the box changed. Sometimes the center of the lid was slightly turned. Sometimes a symbol was missing. Sometimes one segment shone brighter than the others. It was as if the box was listening. As if it was waiting. One evening a new student entered the room – a quiet boy with an attentive gaze, whom the others called only “the Dreamer.” He stood there for a long time without moving. The others had told him about the box, but he didn’t listen to their warnings. His black cat scurried around the table, touching the wood with its forehead as if greeting someone. The boy approached. “What are you?” he whispered. The box didn’t answer – but the light inside flickered. Very briefly. Like a metallic blink. He held out his hand, hesitated. His fingers touched the lid, and the glyphs on the pages began to turn slowly, a silent circling, like forgotten gears beginning to remember. Then a click. The box didn't open like a chest, but peeled itself apart—spiraling, flowing. No light, no smoke. Only a shadow, spread across the table like a memory. Inside lay nothing—and everything. The boy saw things he had never thought of: a key made of amber, a mirror without an image, a melody played only in dreams. He heard a voice—soft, feminine, tired. "I keep what was forgotten because it was too precious to be lost." The cat jumped onto the table, perched on the edge of the shadow, and peered into it. The boy saw dreams he had never dreamed, but recognized as his: A tower of sand rising upward. A feather of light flying against the current. A hand that once held his heart—and then vanished. He didn't cry. But something fell out of him, as if he had undressed. Not of fear—but of what was too heavy to remember. Slowly the box closed. Spiraling again, silently. The lid clicked into place. The glow went out. The symbols fell silent. He stood there.