Dream Within a Dream

Dream Within a Dream

The Echoing Reality

Zara had always been a vivid dreamer. Some nights she dreamed in colors too bright for the waking world, and sounds too sharp to be imagined. Most people forgot their dreams after sunrise. Not Zara. Her dreams clung to her like perfume on clothes—faint but unmistakable.

One evening, after a long day at the university, she fell asleep with her head resting against the window. The sound of distant traffic lulled her into slumber. When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t in her room.

She stood in a dimly lit hallway with patterned tiles stretching endlessly in both directions. The walls were lined with clocks—all ticking, all wrong. Some ran backward, some had no hands at all.

She moved forward, unsure of where she was headed. Her steps made no sound. As she walked, the clocks began to chime one by one, even though none showed the same time.

At the end of the corridor, a door stood slightly ajar. Faint light leaked from inside. She pushed it gently.

On the other side was a massive library—shelves so tall they vanished into shadow. The air smelled of dust and forgotten words. A single desk lamp glowed on a wooden table in the center. Beside it lay an open book. When Zara approached it, she saw her name written at the top of the page.

She didn’t remember writing it.

The page beneath her name was blank, but when she placed her hand on it, words began to appear slowly, like ink remembering its purpose:

You are not asleep yet. Wake deeper.

The sentence sent a shiver through her. Before she could make sense of it, the lamps in the library flickered. The shadows between the shelves shifted. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps echoed—soft, deliberate, approaching.

Her name whispered through the air. She spun around.

And woke up.

She was back in her room, lying on her bed, heartbeat racing. The window was half open, the curtain fluttering in a breeze she couldn’t feel. Everything was familiar, real—until she noticed something odd.

Her desk light was on.

She distinctly remembered turning it off.

She got up and went to switch it off again, but her hand passed through the lamp. Shocked, she pulled her hand back and looked at it. It was solid, but the lamp wasn’t.

Her breathing grew shallow.

She tried to read the time on her clock. The numbers flickered, then rearranged themselves into letters:

STILL DREAMING.

Her mouth went dry. She touched the wall. It felt cool, but only for a moment—then it rippled like water.

Before she could scream, the floor gave way, and she was falling through darkness—until she landed softly on her feet.

She was back in the same corridor filled with clocks.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. She headed straight for the door that led to the library. Only now, the library looked different. The shelves were fewer, and the light was brighter. The wooden desk still stood in the center with the same open book.

But now the page wasn’t blank.

The sentence had changed.

You are closer now. Keep waking.

Zara’s head throbbed. She shut the book and turned—only to see a figure in the corner. A woman, dressed in grey, hair falling over her shoulders, back turned to Zara. The woman seemed familiar, like someone glimpsed in a reflection.

Zara took a step forward. The woman spoke without turning.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Zara asked nervously.

“Thinking this is the second dream,” the woman replied. “It is the third.”

Zara froze. “Who are you?”

The woman finally turned.

Zara found herself staring into her own eyes.

Not a reflection. Not a mirror.

Another version of herself.

Her double smiled gently. “You keep waking, but never fully. You drift between layers like smoke. You think waking up once is enough. It isn’t.”

Zara felt dizzy. “Which one is real?”

Her double stepped closer. “The one you choose to finish.”

The library lights flickered again. Zara staggered back, bumping into a shelf. Books tumbled down, and when one struck the floor, the sound rang loudly—too loud.

The entire room cracked, like a painting splitting at the frame.

She blinked.

And woke up again.

She sat rooted on a train seat, surrounded by quiet passengers. The world outside the window slid by in colors too faded to be real. She didn’t remember boarding any train.

A little boy sitting across from her spoke without looking up from his toy.

“You’re not supposed to be awake here.”

Zara’s voice trembled. “Am I still dreaming?”

The boy nodded. “Almost everyone is. But most don’t notice.”

She leaned forward. “How do I get out?”

He pointed to the end of the carriage, where a closed door stood. “You’ll know when you stop trying to wake up the wrong way.”

The train slowed. The lights flickered. The boy vanished.

She stood and walked to the door. The handle was cold. She pulled it open.

She stumbled forward—

—and found herself lying in a hospital bed.

Her mother sat nearby, eyes swollen from crying. A doctor spoke softly to her.

“She’s still in a coma. Her brain is showing dream-state patterns, but unusually deep.”

Zara tried to speak, but no sound left her lips. She moved her hand. Her fingers twitched. No one noticed.

She looked around the room. On the side table lay a journal. Her journal. The one she had lost months ago. The page was open. And written at the top was the same sentence the book showed in the dream:

You are not asleep yet. Wake deeper.

Tears filled her eyes.

Her heart slowed.

She closed her eyes—not in fear this time, but in understanding.

She sank gently, like someone diving into calm water.

And when she opened her eyes again, sunlight touched her face.

Her mother gasped. The doctor called out in disbelief. Zara blinked up at them.

This time, she knew.

She wasn’t dreaming.

Not anymore.