Midnight at the Carnival of Lost Souls

I was nineteen when I stumbled upon the Carnival of Lost Souls. Not in a dream, not in a book—but in real life, on a night when I had nothing left but questions and silence. It was October, the wind sharp with the scent of drying leaves and burning wood. I had run away from another argument, another slammed door, another feeling I didn’t know how to carry.

That’s when I saw it.

A flicker of crimson light through the fog. Laughter—not cheerful, but hollow. Music played faintly, as if pulled from a long-lost record spinning on a dusty turntable. Drawn by something I couldn’t explain, I followed the sounds into the trees.

And there it was.

A rusted iron gate, wide open. A painted sign swayed above it:

“Carnival of Lost Souls – One Night Only”

The Gatekeeper and the Invitation

He stood just inside the gate, tall and thin, wearing a suit stitched from shadows and stars. His eyes, though kind, looked like they’d seen centuries. He didn’t speak—just nodded as if he’d been expecting me.

“Do I need a ticket?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He shook his head slowly. “You’ve already paid,” he said softly, and stepped aside.

Some part of me should’ve turned back. But grief makes you brave in strange ways.

The Tent of Forgotten Dreams

The carnival wasn’t loud. It wasn’t bright. But it was alive in a way that felt old and sacred. I wandered through booths and tents, each one echoing with something familiar and aching.

The first tent I entered was small and striped in gray and gold. Inside, I found mirrors—not reflecting the present, but memories. My childhood dreams danced in front of me: becoming a dancer, writing a book, building a treehouse no one ever helped me build. They spun and shimmered, then slowly faded like dust in sunlight.

I didn’t cry. But my chest ached.

“Why show me these?” I asked a voice I couldn’t see.

“To remind you,” it answered, “that what is forgotten is not always lost.”

The Ride of Regrets

Next came the Ferris wheel. It creaked and moaned like it carried the weight of stories too heavy for the ground. I climbed into a seat, and as it rose, the world shifted. Below me, the carnival melted into memories—every mistake, every goodbye, every “what if” I’d buried under a smile.

At the top, the wheel stopped.

The wind whispered, “What would you say to the version of you that never gave up?”

I closed my eyes and whispered, “I’d say I’m sorry it took me so long to believe in us.”

And just like that, the wheel descended. But my heart stayed suspended, full of something I hadn’t felt in months—hope.

The Tent of Echoes

I wandered into another tent that pulsed with low vibrations, like the hum of a forgotten lullaby. Inside, people sat in silence, eyes closed. A woman next to me opened hers and turned.

“You hear it too?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“The voice you buried beneath the noise of everyone else’s expectations.”

I didn’t know what to say. But then I listened. Deep, deep inside, beneath the shoulds and musts and fears, I heard a faint voice. My own.

“I still believe in you,” it whispered.

I began to cry.

Not because I was broken. But because I wasn’t.

The Clock Strikes Midnight

As I stepped into the heart of the carnival, the music changed. Slower. Softer. Sadder.

The gatekeeper stood in the center, lantern in hand.

“Every soul who enters,” he said, “carries something heavy. Here, we don’t take it away. But we remind you that you don’t have to carry it alone.”

He reached into his coat and handed me something small: a key. Plain, rusted, and warm.

“What’s this for?”

He smiled. “You’ll know when it’s time.”

Back to the World

When I blinked again, I was outside the trees. No lights. No music. Just the rustling leaves and the sound of my own breath. But my hands still held the key.

I carried it with me.

Through the seasons of healing. Through the rebuilding. Through the days when shadows still whispered, and through the days I whispered back with courage.

The Carnival of Lost Souls wasn’t a dream. It was a mirror. A quiet reminder that we all get lost sometimes—but there are places, and people, and moments that help us find our way again.

Moral / Life Lesson

We all carry things unseen—dreams that faded, regrets that linger, voices we silenced. But we’re not broken. We’re becoming. Healing doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it whispers in forgotten places, waiting for us to listen.

Even in your darkest midnight, there’s a light that never leaves you. Chase it. Trust it. And remember—you are not lost. You are on your way.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi