Dreams Are Expensive Here

Not a metaphorical one—the kind you chase with late nights, rent overdue, and an aching heart. No, I came for the real thing. The kind they grow in labs under soft purple lights. The kind they sell in velvet boxes behind frosted glass, where price tags are whispered rather than written.

I’d heard about them for years. In the smaller towns, they were rumors. Urban legends carried by truck drivers and soldiers on leave. The story always began the same: “You know in the city, they sell actual dreams?” And ended with, “It’ll cost you, though. More than you think.”

I didn’t believe it. Not until I stood in front of the storefront on Seventh and Argus, heart thudding like I’d stolen something. The place was called Somnus & Sons, but no one ever saw a “Son,” and the man at the front didn’t look like he’d ever slept.

Inside, it smelled like cold roses and static. A hush fell over everything like it was underwater. The clerk wore silver gloves and didn’t smile.

“What kind?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Something peaceful. Something… mine.”

He didn’t laugh, but something in his eyes shifted—like pity, maybe. Or amusement.

“They’re never yours. Not really. But we have what you’re looking for.”

He led me to a chamber in the back—no bigger than a hospital room. A sleek recliner sat in the middle, surrounded by thin wires and glass panels. I sat. He placed a device over my temples, something like a crown and a cage.

“Payment?” he asked.

I pulled out my wallet.

He shook his head. “Not that kind.”

My voice dropped. “Then what?”

He raised one silver-gloved hand and tapped the side of my head. “Memory. Identity. Emotion. Currency of the mind.”

I didn’t understand. Not fully. But I nodded.

The machine hummed.

I woke up crying.

Not from pain. From beauty. I had just seen something impossible—fields of light that moved like music, a woman with golden eyes who whispered my name like it was sacred, skies that shifted colors with my breathing. I felt joy so sharp it almost hurt. Peace like I'd been chasing it my whole life.

The feeling stayed with me for hours.

But something else left.

At first, I couldn’t tell what. Then I saw my brother’s name in my phone and couldn’t remember the sound of his laugh. I looked at old photos and felt nothing. A dull numbness settled over familiar things.

The dream had been bought with something I hadn’t realized I gave away.

Still, I came back.

The second dream was of flying. Not in the clumsy way airplanes fly, but like a thought—fast and fluid and free. I soared over cities I didn’t recognize but somehow loved. I kissed a stranger and it felt like coming home.

I awoke breathless.

But this time, I couldn’t remember the last book I loved. The one that used to sit dog-eared on my nightstand. The one I swore changed my life. Its words had vanished, and so had the feeling it once gave me.

I tried to tell myself it was worth it. What’s the point of clinging to memories if better ones can be bought?

People started noticing. My sister said I’d changed. Friends said I smiled less. Someone at work asked if I was sleeping okay. I was. Better than ever, in fact. But it didn’t matter.

I was becoming a stranger to my own life.

Still, I came back.

The final dream was not what I asked for.

I wanted something simple. A walk in the woods. A return to innocence.

Instead, I found myself sitting across from a boy. Me, at seven years old. Eyes bright. Teeth chipped. Asking me why I left him behind.

“You used to believe,” he said.

“I still do.”

“No,” he replied. “You trade your real dreams for fake ones. And you know it.”

When I woke up, the clerk was staring at me.

“That one wasn’t curated,” he said. “Sometimes the system pulls what’s buried deepest. You can’t always choose what you see.”

I left without paying. Not because it was free. But because I’d given it everything I had left.