The House That Remembers Dreams

More about The House That Remembers Dreams

She didn't know if the path had led her to the place—or if she had made the place possible in the first place through her memory. Mirea stood on a hill of languid light, the sky above her gray like aged parchment, crisscrossed by barely visible threads of thought. Her cat sat beside her, its tail wrapped tightly around its paws, intently observing something that didn't yet exist. "I remember a house," Mirea said quietly. It wasn't a sentence, but a key. And with that key, the world opened. Before her eyes, barely more than a hunch, a building appeared. At first blurred, as if seen through a mirror of tears, then clearer: a winding house made of moss-gray stone, its walls crooked as if worn by many dreams, its windows like eyes that never fully sleep. The roof looked as if someone had folded it from old music. The door was open—not because someone had opened it, but because it was waiting for someone. Mirea stepped closer. With every step, the house became more real. Her cat scampered ahead, silently through the threshold, as if it had been expecting this place for a long time. Inside, it was quiet. Not empty—just quiet, like a breath between two memories. The air smelled of yellowed paper, warm dust, and a hint of lavender. A long hallway led to doors that had no names. Mirea opened one of them. Behind it was not a room, but a place within her: a river of light, on whose surface her childhood danced. She saw herself, small, barefoot, with a paper crown on her head, a lantern made of snowlight in her hand. "I dreamed you," she whispered. The next door led to a spiral staircase that didn't move up or down, but revolved in the circle of years. On its walls hung pictures that disappeared as soon as you touched them. In one room hummed a melody that came from no instrument. In another lay pages filled with dreams, none of which were written down—and yet all of them were there. And then came the room without form. It was as if no one had ever fully thought it through. In its center stood a simple chair. On it sat a being of flickering light and fleeting shadow. It had no face, and yet it looked directly at Mirea. "I am what you almost forgot," it said without a voice. "I... know you." She stepped closer, heartbeat like rain on window glass. "You drew me before you could write. I was your first home. The one of wishes." Mirea nodded slowly. "I thought I'd lost you." The being placed the shadow of a hand over her heart. "You only lose what you let go of." And in that moment, she knew the house wasn't built of stone. It was made of everything she had never finished thinking, never spoken, never let go of.