The Price of a Dream



The first time Mira saw the flyer, it fluttered onto her shoe as if fate itself had delivered it. She stood on the corner of 5th and Elm, waiting for the bus after another long shift at the diner, her apron stained with coffee and her sneakers damp from the rain. The paper was creased but bold, with a headline in black block letters:

"We Can Make Your Dream Come True. But Everything Has a Price."

Curiosity pulled her in. She read the rest of the flyer: a name—Dr. Lysander & Associates—and an address downtown. No phone number. No website. Just a line that said, “Only the truly willing should knock.”

Most people would’ve tossed it. Mira kept it.

She had always dreamed of being a dancer. Not just any dancer, but a principal ballerina in a company that made audiences cry from beauty. Her mother told her it was unrealistic, her teachers discouraged her, and life—rent, work, the slow grind of survival—had confirmed it. But that flyer reminded her of a girl she’d once been. The girl who danced barefoot in the backyard to music only she could hear.

Three nights later, she stood outside the address on the flyer. It was a nondescript brick building between a closed bookstore and a pawn shop. The door was painted black, with a silver knocker shaped like a swan’s head. She almost turned back. But then she knocked.

A tall man in a charcoal suit opened the door. His eyes were pale, unnervingly still. “Miss Mira Green?” he asked.

She hadn’t told anyone she was coming.

Inside, the building was sleek and quiet. A single hallway led her into an office that resembled a therapist’s room—plush chairs, low lighting, a desk with no computer. Dr. Lysander stood behind it. He looked like he’d stepped out of another century: long gray coat, gloved hands, and a voice smooth like velvet dipped in smoke.

“You wish to be a dancer,” he said.

Mira nodded.

He smiled. “We offer dreams, Miss Green. But nothing is free. The world takes its balance.”

She frowned. “So… how much?”

He waved a hand. “Not money. Something more meaningful. You must give something of equal value to your dream.”

Mira sat back. “Like what?”

“Time. Memory. Emotion. You might never cry again. Or you may lose the scent of your mother’s cooking. Or the memory of your first kiss. Perhaps a year of your life. Or a decade. You choose what you give.”

She laughed nervously. “Is this real?”

Dr. Lysander looked at her with pity. “Only people desperate enough believe it is.”

She didn’t sleep that night. But she returned the next day. She agreed to the terms.

“I will give you,” she said, voice trembling, “my sense of comfort. My need to feel safe. Take it.”

The contract was drawn in silver ink. She signed.

The transformation began the next morning.

Mira awoke with her body humming. Her limbs moved with ease and precision she’d never known. Her balance was flawless, her form transcendent. She began training at a studio, and within weeks, she was noticed. A month later, she auditioned for a company in New York. She was accepted the same day. Her name began appearing in reviews—“Celestial,” “Magnetic,” “Unreal.”

She felt no fear. No hesitation. No doubt. The part of her that once second-guessed, that craved reassurance or comfort, was simply gone. She danced on broken toes. She danced through hunger and cold. She pushed her body to exhaustion with a smile. Her dream was real.

But comfort is not a luxury. It’s a necessity. Without it, there is no warmth in touch. No softness in sleep. Mira began to drift. Friendships slipped away. She didn’t miss them. She didn’t miss anything.

One night, after a standing ovation at Lincoln Center, she sat alone in her dressing room. Her reflection was perfect. But her eyes looked hollow. She could no longer cry. Not even for joy.

She returned to the building on 5th and Elm. The door was gone. In its place: a concrete wall, blank and gray. As if it had never existed.

Her dream had come true.

And it had cost her everything.

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Leterein