Dawn Over Lost Dreams

The sky was painted in shades of pink and orange as the first golden rays of sunrise spread across the valley. The overgrown grass along the rusty wooden fence was rustled by a light wind that smelled of damp earth and wildflowers. At the center of it all, the mansion had gotten older over time, and its white walls had turned a gentle gray.

With her fingers encircling the corroded iron clasp, Elena stood at the gate. After a moment of hesitation, she pushed it open, and the early morning calm was broken by the groan of the hinges. Like a ghost from the past, the sound reverberated in her head.

Fifteen years have passed.

She had not walked up this trail in fifteen years. She had listened to her grandmother hum old lullabies while sitting on the porch swing fifteen years prior. She had raced across the fields barefoot fifteen years prior, believing in enchantment and limitless possibilities.

However, she was no longer a child.

She had left this location to pursue a life full of meetings, deadlines, and the never-ending bustle of a metropolis that never slept. She had persuaded herself that the stories she used to write were merely innocent fancies, burying her dreams beneath the burden of expectations.

Nevertheless, here she was.

She had returned because of one letter.

"My dear girl, please come home. You have stuff waiting for you that you left behind.

The letter, written in her grandmother's fragile, unsteady handwriting, had come a month prior. However, there was no answer when she attempted to call. She had been informed by the neighbors that the house had been vacant for some time.

She had lost her granny.

The insight sank like a stone into her chest. Her wait was too lengthy.

Remembering how her grandmother used to sit here in the evenings with a cup of chamomile tea in her hands, Elena walked onto the porch and ran her fingers along the wooden railing. Half anticipating the smell of ancient books and lavender to greet her, she pushed open the door. Rather, she encountered quiet and dust.

Her footsteps reverberated in the emptiness as she strolled around the house. It felt smaller now, as though the walls had shrunk with the passing years, but otherwise, everything was exactly as she had left it.

Memories came pouring back as she traced the nicks and scratches on the wooden table in the kitchen.

Cookies were baked in the afternoons. Her grandmother stirred a pot of soup while she worked on her homework in the evenings.

She touched the spines of books she had once read cover to cover in the living room, stories that had taken her to far places.

Then she located the door to the attic.

She wrenched it open and it moaned in protest, filling her lungs with the smell of time and cedar. A little window let in golden light, which caused dust particles to dance. Her heart was racing from an unidentified cause as she ascended the stairs.

Then she noticed it.

Hidden beneath old quilts is a wooden box.

Her grandmother's meticulous script was used to write her name on the lid.

Lifting the lid, Elena fell to her knees, gasping for air.

She discovered her childhood fantasies within.

drawings of mythical animals that are vivid with imagination but have faded in color. Stories in notebooks that she had vowed to write at one point. flowers that were pressed from meadow afternoons. Her letters to herself served as a reminder of her desired future self.

And one envelope in the bottom of the box.

She opened it, her hands shaking.

"Dreams never really go away, Elena. They lurk in the areas we have forgotten, waiting for us. It’s never too late to find them again."

Her vision was obscured by tears.

She would been striving to fit into a world that never seemed quite right for so long. She had persuaded herself that stories were supposed to be left unfinished and aspirations were supposed to be outgrown.

Her grandma, however, had been wiser.

Everything was drenched in gold as the first rays of dawn streamed through the attic window. She could clearly see the route she had left behind and the stories that awaited her in that golden glow.

Suddenly, she was aware.

It was time to start over.

Rekindled Memories

Elena spent hours searching through the attic over the course of the following few days, finding aspects of herself she had long forgotten. Every notebook contained a unique universe and dream, each one incomplete yet full of possibilities.

She was reading her childhood stories one evening while sitting by the ancient fireplace. She grinned at the naivete of her earlier self, the daring young woman who had thought of magic, dragons, and infinite adventures.

For what reason had she stopped?

It had been impeded by life. Work, school, and obligations. She had dismissed her dreams one by one, assuring herself that there would be time for them later. However, later had become years.

So far.

The next morning, she drove into town, wandering through the familiar streets that had once been her entire world. She could still see the bookstore she had adored as a girl, its window brimming with vibrant decorations. She entered and felt a flame rekindle inside of her as she ran her fingertips over book spines.

She was greeted with a smile by an elderly woman behind the counter. "Dear, you look familiar. Have we previously met?

Elena paused before responding. "This is where I formerly resided. a long time ago.

"Ah," the woman said with a nod. "You had to be Eleanor's grandchild, then."

Elena's chest constricted when she heard her grandmother's name called out. "Yes, I am."

Her expression relaxed. "She used to frequently visit here and talk about you. said to have a talent for telling stories.

Elena took a deep breath. "I thought so too once."

"Well," the woman answered, "you can always start over at any time."

Elena felt a chill as the phrases repeated the message from her grandmother's letter. With a new notebook and a blank slate, she walked out of the store.

An Upcoming Chapter

In the old house, a new life had started to blossom after several months. Elena was sitting with a cup of tea and an open notebook on her lap when the porch swing creaked under her weight. No longer were the pages blank.

She had resumed her writing.

Tucked away in dusty attics and forgotten dreams, the world she had once built as a child had been waiting for her all along.

She discovered a little café where local writers congregated one afternoon when she strolled into town. She had been hesitant at first, not sure if she belonged. However, after taking a deep breath, she entered.

A section from one of her stories was read by her.

She spoke, her voice calm despite the flutter of nerves in her chest, and the room had been quiet. And there had been cheers when she was done.

She felt as though she was at her perfect place for the first time in years.

One morning, she closed her notepad and grinned as the sun rose over the valley.

At last, she was at home.

At last, she was her former self.

And this was only the start.