The dream that wasn’t

A soft glow filtered through the curtains, bathing the room in a warm, golden light. The gentle rustling of fabric stirred the silence as a small figure shifted beneath the covers. His long lashes fluttered before dark eyes slowly opened.

Familiarity greeted him.

The rich tapestries, the carved wooden furniture, the soft silk sheets—his room.

For a long moment, he simply stared at the ceiling, his mind clouded with confusion. Hadn’t he…?

Suddenly, like a dam breaking, the memories of the past few days crashed down on him. The cold, the pain, the hunger—the endless walk through the frozen wastelands. His breath hitched, and his body tensed as fear seized him. Was it a dream?

His trembling fingers clutched the sheets.

No, it had felt too real. The exhaustion, the numbness, the way his body had given out on that final day… If it was a dream, why did his heart still race in terror?

Panic flared in his chest. He had to see her. He had to see Mother.

Throwing off the covers, he bolted from the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor as he sprinted toward her chambers. He burst through the doors—empty.

His heart pounded. His breath came in ragged gasps as he ran through the halls, opening door after door, calling out for her—but she was nowhere to be found.

His hope was slipping.

Then, as desperation clawed at his mind, a single thought struck him.

The garden.

His legs carried him before his mind could catch up. He sprinted toward the sunlit courtyard, his breath uneven, his chest tightening—until he saw her.

A lone silhouette stood among the blooming flowers, watering the delicate petals with gentle hands. Her presence was warm, serene, untouched by the frantic storm within him.

"Mother…!"

His small feet barely touched the ground as he ran straight into her embrace, arms wrapping around her tightly. Warmth. The warmth he had been searching for. The warmth he had nearly lost.

Tears spilled freely down his face as sobs wracked his small body. He didn’t want to let go.

She held him, her hand stroking his hair soothingly. "It’s alright. You’re safe now. Don’t cry, my love."

Slowly, the fear faded, replaced by warmth and comfort. The scent of flowers, the sound of her heartbeat, the soft lull of her voice—it was real. She was real.

"I had a nightmare," he wanted to tell her. "I was lost, alone… I thought I’d never see you again."

But the words never came.

His lips parted, yet no sound escaped. His throat constricted, his voice stolen. He tried again—nothing.

His eyes widened in panic. Why couldn’t he speak?

He tried harder, forcing his lips to move, struggling against the silence. But nothing changed.

And then, something worse happened.

The warmth of her arms started to fade.

Her figure, once solid and real, began to dissolve—like mist scattered by the wind.

"No… no, no, no—"

He reached for her, tried to hold on, but his fingers grasped at nothing. She was slipping away, disappearing before his eyes.

"Mother!"

The scream tore from his throat, raw and desperate—

—And then he woke up.

A sharp inhale. His body jolted upright, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded against his ribs, his breath ragged. But something was wrong.

This wasn’t his room.

The bed beneath him was unfamiliar, the scent in the air foreign. And beside him, two strangers sat—watching him with relieved smiles.

A woman, perhaps in her thirties, her face kind yet weary. Beside her, a bald man with a stone-like expression, his sharp eyes unreadable.

Who were they?

And more importantly—where was he?

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