Dust and Dreams

Zaryab had always felt a little different.

Her mother used to say she was born with too much light in her eyes, as though her soul had stolen an extra spark from the stars before slipping into her body. At school, other children teased her for her strange habit of staring at the old tree outside their village—the great Dream Tree that bent its branches as if listening to the world. For generations, the villagers believed the Dream Tree held the weight of every person’s sleeping mind. Whenever someone died, a leaf curled in flame, turned to dust, and floated away on the wind.

But Zaryab had noticed something else—something no one else seemed to see.

Some leaves didn’t burn. Some leaves fell alive, trembling with light, and nestled themselves into the soil.

She never told anyone, not even her mother, because who would believe her? Dreams weren’t supposed to live. They were supposed to vanish like smoke.

One quiet evening, as dusk blurred the edges of the village, Zaryab wandered to the base of the Dream Tree. She pressed her palm against its rough bark, as she had done since childhood. The wind whispered in the branches, carrying faint echoes: laughter, sighs, cries, murmurs of love. Dreams were tangled there like threads in a loom.

And then it happened.

A leaf, glowing like silver fire, drifted down and landed on her hand. It did not crumble or burn. It pulsed, as if breathing. She gasped.

The leaf unfurled into something soft and shimmering—like fabric woven from moonlight. It twisted, formed a shape, and before her stood a child, no older than six, with eyes wide as dawn.

“Are you my dream?” Zaryab whispered.

The child tilted its head. “I’m your part,” it said. “The part you lost when you were born.”

Her heart stuttered. “Lost?”

The child nodded solemnly. “You’re not like them. Half of you is dream, half of you is flesh. That’s why the Tree never let go of you.”

Zaryab staggered back. She wanted to laugh, to deny, to run—but something deep in her bones knew the truth. Memories she could not explain rose up: why she sometimes woke with sand in her mouth as if she had swallowed stars; why she often felt more alive in sleep than in waking.

She fell to her knees. “If that’s true… then what am I?”

The child smiled faintly. “You are both. Dust and dream. And you must choose.”

The choice came faster than she expected.

Three nights later, the Dream Hunters arrived.

They were strangers wrapped in black, carrying glass jars that glowed with trapped light. They had long since abandoned sleep, preferring to steal the dreams of others to extend their lives. Wherever they traveled, villages withered. People stopped dreaming altogether, their eyes hollow as if something had been scooped out of them.

When the villagers of Zaryab’s home saw the Hunters, they shut their doors and prayed. But Zaryab could feel the pull inside her chest—the hunters were searching for her. Not the villagers. Her.

That night, she sat with her mother by the fire. The shadows stretched long across the floor, and Zaryab could barely breathe.

“Mother,” she whispered, “if you knew I was… not entirely human… would you still love me?”

Her mother did not flinch. She reached out and took Zaryab’s hands, calloused from chores but still warm. “My child, I loved you before you had a name. Light or dust, dream or flesh—it does not matter. You are mine.”

Tears burned Zaryab’s eyes. For a moment, she wished she could stay hidden forever, curled against her mother’s chest. But outside, the wind shifted. The Hunters were close. She could hear their jars rattling, hungry for more light.

She stood. “Then I must protect you.”

Zaryab walked alone to the Dream Tree. The Hunters waited at its roots, their glass jars glowing faintly. One of them stepped forward, his voice smooth as a blade.

“You are the girl of half-dream. Come with us. With your power, we can harvest the Tree itself. Imagine—never-ending life.”

Her stomach twisted. “At the cost of what? You’d drain every soul, every memory, every hope, just to keep walking in shadows.”

He smiled. “And what are you, if not shadow yourself? Flesh and dream bound together? You don’t belong in either world.”

For a moment, the words pierced her. Didn’t she always feel out of place? Too strange for humans, too heavy for dreams? But then she remembered the child’s words: You are both. And her mother’s hands, steady and warm.

Zaryab stepped closer to the Tree. She pressed her palm against its bark. “I am both,” she said firmly. “And because of that, I can protect it.”

The Tree stirred. Leaves rustled like a thousand heartbeats. Light poured down the branches and wrapped around her. She felt something awaken inside her chest—a river of warmth and wind, flowing, alive.

The Hunters lunged, jars outstretched. But the Tree’s light struck first. The jars shattered. Dreams escaped like flocks of birds, soaring into the sky. The Hunters screamed as the light seared them, until they were nothing but dust scattered on the wind.

Silence fell. Zaryab knelt, breathless, her body trembling. She thought she would collapse—but instead she felt stronger, steadier, as though her soul had settled fully into place for the first time.

The child appeared again, smiling. “You chose well.”

Zaryab smiled back, though her eyes filled with tears. “No. I just chose what I already was.”

The child nodded, then dissolved into light, sinking into her chest. And Zaryab knew: the missing part of her had finally returned.

When she walked back to the village, her mother was waiting, arms open. Behind them, the Dream Tree swayed, glowing brighter than it had in centuries. For the first time, Zaryab didn’t feel different. She felt whole.