Dreams for Sale

The neon lights of Novaterra City glowed brighter than the stars that no longer pierced its smog-choked skies. Here, dreams weren’t just fleeting shadows of the subconscious; they were commodities. They were bottled, traded, and sold like perfumes in gleaming glass vials.

In this city, people could purchase a good night’s rest infused with the thrill of climbing Everest, the warmth of childhood memories, or even the sweetness of first love. The Dream Exchange, a towering structure of chrome and glass, buzzed day and night with citizens eager to escape their lives for a few hours.

Seventeen-year-old Kael had never set foot inside the Dream Exchange. He didn’t need to. His dreams were vivid, strange, and precious—like treasures carved from the deepest corners of his imagination. He dreamt of endless forests untouched by human hands, of rivers that sang in a language no one had heard before, of flying without wings. These dreams were his refuge in a city that often felt cold and mechanical.

But one morning, Kael woke with emptiness pressing against his skull. No memory, no image, no lingering echo of a dream. Just blackness. For the first time in his life, he had slept without color.

He brushed it off as exhaustion—until the second night passed the same way. And the third.

Something was wrong.

On the fourth morning, Kael found a small mark on his temple: a faint, shimmering scar in the shape of a spiral. His chest tightened. He had seen that mark before—on the Dreamless, those whose dreams had been stolen and sold without their consent.

His heart pounded. Someone had taken his dreams.

Determined to find answers, Kael went to the Dream Exchange. The lobby was vast, lined with holographic advertisements: “Relive your happiest memory for only 500 credits!” … “Experience the thrill of war without the danger!” … “Own someone else’s dream of love!”

Kael clenched his fists as he approached the counter. Behind it sat a woman with metallic eyes, her smile polished but hollow.

“I think my dreams have been stolen,” Kael said.

The woman scanned him with a sleek device. Her eyes flickered, then softened with something that looked like pity. “Your neural signature matches several dream listings,” she said quietly. “It appears… yes, your dreams have been harvested.”

Kael’s throat went dry. “By who?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Then at least—where are they now?”

She hesitated, then turned her screen slightly, just enough for Kael to glimpse. There it was: a dream labeled ‘Flight Over Endless Forests’, selling for more credits than Kael’s family could earn in a year. Another titled ‘River of Songs’, already marked as purchased.

His chest ached. His dreams weren’t just his—they were pieces of him. And now strangers were buying them like souvenirs.

That night, Kael wandered through the city in a daze. He passed a man laughing in his sleep on a bench, clutching a cheap dream vial. He passed children staring wide-eyed at holographic ads for “Adventure Dreams” while their parents argued over the price.

At the edge of the city, Kael found himself at a black-market alley where illegal dream-trading thrived. Here, dreams weren’t polished or filtered—they were raw, dangerous, addictive.

An old woman sat cross-legged by a flickering lamp, selling vials with hand-scribbled labels. Kael’s eyes widened when he saw one: “The Boy Who Could Fly.”

“That’s mine,” he whispered.

The woman’s eyes, sharp and tired, studied him. “You’re the dreamer?”

Kael nodded.

She sighed. “Then you must understand—dreams are the only escape for many. The city feeds on them. Yours are rare, beautiful. That’s why they were taken.”

Tears stung his eyes. “But they’re mine. Without them… who am I?”

The woman’s gaze softened. She pressed the vial into his hand. “Dreams can be stolen, yes. But they can also be reclaimed. Drink it, and it will return to you. But be warned: once you reclaim a dream, it cannot be sold again. You’ll be closing the door forever.”

Kael held the vial, trembling. Inside, the liquid shimmered like liquid sky. He thought of the strangers buying his dreams, using them as entertainment. He thought of waking night after night to blackness.

He uncorked the vial and drank.

That night, Kael dreamed again. He soared above endless forests, the wind alive in his hair. The river sang to him in its ancient tongue. His chest filled with joy, sorrow, and something fiercer: defiance.

When he awoke, the mark on his temple was gone. His dream was his again.

He knew the city would try to take more. But he also knew something they didn’t: dreams weren’t just commodities. They were the last sacred fire left in a world of machines. And he would protect his fire—even if it meant burning the whole system down.