A Morning in Another Dimension

Miles saw three things right away when he woke up. First, his alarm clock was whirling languidly in midair. Second, the strong violet sunshine streaming in through his window created strange shadows on the walls. Third, there were eyes growing on his ceiling fan.

The fan said, "Good morning," in a kind British accent. As it spun, its eyes blinked slowly. "Your existential crisis is five minutes late."

Miles blinked.

The admirer smiled politely. Greetings from the Second Fold, Sixth Layer, Seventy-Third Parallel, Interdimensional Stream. There is breakfast in the garden. Do not tread on the psychic lilies, please.

The fan then accelerated its rotation and vanished into thin air.

Miles scratched his head while sitting up in bed. There was a slight scent of static electricity and cinnamon in the air. To be sure, he pinched himself twice. He slept around 2:17 a.m. after watching a late-night wormhole documentary, and it was the last thing he recalled. The phrase "what if dreams were only detours into other realms" had been spoken by him before he fell asleep.

The universe had apparently taken it seriously.

Even though the room was his, it wasn't. A couple of inches separated the bookcase from the ground. When he turned away, the books rearranged themselves. At him, one blinked. Instead of his reflection, a blue-haired version of himself with a tiny moon circling his head like a planetary halo was seen in the wall mirror.

"All right," Miles told himself. "I am either dead, dreaming, or really high."

The floor rippled softly like a pond's surface when he got out of bed. His footfall produced little sound waves that swirled around his feet, but he did not sink. The door was made of a substance that resembled liquid mercury and swirled with patterns of color and light instead of wood. As he got closer, it sighed and parted.

He had never seen a garden like the one outside.

With their fractal-shaped petals, giant blooms loomed like skyscrapers. There were three layers to the sky: a normal blue sky above, a translucent sky shimmering below, and a third full of floating islands and whales drifting in harmonic chords. Trees used rhyming couplets to communicate secrets. A bunch of mushrooms hummed a jazzy melody while dancing in circles.

A woman stood in the center of it all. She was dressed in a glass and feather suit. Her eyes were filled with tiny galaxies, and her hair changed color like a slick of oil.

She said, "Good morning," and held up a silver spoon. "You enjoy eggs?"

Miles gazed at her intently. "Who are you?"

She cracked an egg into a floating skillet and said, "Zara." Hissing, the egg transformed into a luminous sphere that hung over the pan like a miniature sun. Dimensional envoy. I help dreamers, lost souls, and the occasional sleep-deprived philosopher. Two of the three fit you.

Miles gave his temples a rub. "This is a dream, then?"

It depends on how you define it. In your universe, dreams are pockets of reality that float across unreality. It is the other way around here. She gave him a plate and threw a pinch of glitter into the skillet. The scrambled-egg orb glistened.

aids in establishing your awareness.

He chewed into it. It had the flavor of sunny summer days, reminiscence, and the satisfaction of finishing a great book. It simultaneously made him smile and hurt.

"Why am I here?"

Zara took a seat next to him on a rock that changed into a padded bench. For years, you were on the verge of getting away with it. Your ideas, aspirations, and inquiries caused a stir. The ripple turned into a gateway last night.

"It was not my intention," Miles whispered.

"You never do," she remarked, sounding almost kind. However, there are moments when you have desires beyond what the world provides. And the cosmos pays attention when the need is great enough.

He surveyed the area. Yes, the setting was breathtakingly beautiful, but there was also a calm craziness to it. Your secrets were whispered by the flowers. clouds that expressed your apologies. The world was alive, and conscious.

"May I return?" he inquired.

Zara's head cocked.

However, you must locate the mirror first.

"Which mirror?"

She gestured toward the meandering trail that led past an eye-shaped patch of dandelions. "The one that demonstrates your identity." Not who you believe yourself to be. Not who you say you are. The true you.

Miles let out a sigh. "Obviously. "Is not it never easy?"

"Happy," she said. "But for the first part, I will walk with you."

The path they were following changed course when they were not looking. Leaning in close, the trees offered clues. He was asked about his thoughts on quantum entanglement by a squirrel wearing a waistcoat. Miles gave his best response.

The squirrel gave him a walnut that spoke encouraging words and said, "Good lad." "Well, you are on your way."

Zara chuckled. "You are outperforming most people."

"Do other people visit here?"

Children, lucid dreamers, artists, and those in transitional states. It is not arbitrary. Even if it is hidden deep, there is always a cause.

Miles began to notice things as they went along, scenes emerging in puddles along the route. His bedroom as a child. It was his first heartbreak. The moment he nearly stopped writing. Watching a meteor shower with his best friend was the highlight of his day.

At that one, he stopped.

"I overlooked this," he muttered.

"The majority do," Zara stated. "But you still have it."

The trail continued until it narrowed into a tunnel made of entwined trees. It grew gloomy. The air grew heavier.

Zara paused at the entryway and said, "You travel alone from here."

Miles paused. "What if I can not locate the mirror?"

She said, "You remain." "Until you are all set. or until you lose sight of your motivation for leaving.

He turned to face her again. "Will we cross paths again?"

She grinned. "You do it every time. in gut instincts, dreams, and shadows. Even when you do not know the route, I am the part of you that does.

Then, in a flutter of feathers, she was gone.

After inhaling deeply, Miles entered the tube.

His heartbeat was the only sound coming from inside. The trees whispered, but he heard his voice, reverberating in bits and pieces back to him:

"I do not measure up."

"I have no idea what I am doing."

"What if I never find love?"

"What if I never create something significant?"

He continued to walk.

He finally came upon a clearing. A tall, crystalline mirror stood in the middle. His appearance was not reflected in it. Rather, it depicted real moments, some happy, others embarrassing. His generosity. His envy. His bravery. His timidity. His chuckle. His rage.

It was too much.

He shuddered and knelt before it.

He muttered, "I am not sure whether I like what I see."

"You do not have to like it," said a steadier version of his own voice. You simply must come to terms with it.

And a change occurred.

He saw himself in the shimmering mirror. Only himself. eyes that are tired. Untidy hair. a kind heart. A man with flaws doing his best.

Then, like a scroll being rolled up, the universe began to unravel—not collapse, just unwind. Inward, the trees folded. The sky retreated. The hues became dimmer. And Miles sensed that he was being drawn—

He gasped when he awoke.

Everything was usual in his room. Eyeless, the ceiling fan whirled languidly. At 8:02 a.m., the alarm clock flickered.

His heart thumping, he sat up. There was no moon, no trickery, just him in the wall mirror.

However, something had changed.

He felt tethered.

As though something that he was unaware was loose had silently come into alignment.

He walked to the window after getting out of bed. Sunlight streamed through as usual. Automobiles sounded. Birds sang. The morning was like any other.

Nevertheless.

The egg had tasted like summer, and he could taste it now.

Feel Zara's feathered presence next to him even now.

Remember the mirror.

It did not matter to him whether it had been a dream or some weird, genuine adventure.

"I am still me," he remarked quietly as he stretched and grinned to himself.

And that felt like enough for the first time in a long time.