Pilgrim’s Price

She came with dust on her boots and a prayer on her lips.

The town was too quiet.

Shops still had fruit in their baskets—wrinkled, dry. Horses stood frozen like statues. Children curled on porches as if caught mid-laughter. But no one breathed. No one blinked.

Except for one boy.

He was no older than sixteen. Eyes like dawn mist and voice like a whisper through a dream. He sat in the center of town, watching her arrive, as if he’d been waiting for years.

"They’re all asleep," he said. "Ten years now. Since the sky broke."

She asked why he remained awake.

"Because I dream for them," he said.

Each night, he kept the town alive—its heartbeat steady through visions he didn’t control. He dreamt their birthdays, their festivals, their grief. The world had stopped, but he spun its echo in his sleep. If he stopped dreaming, they would fade.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

She didn’t know. Only that something called her. Some pull of fate or faith.

But now she knew her role.

The shrine at the edge of town, overgrown and humming with silence, held a choice: break the curse and wake the town... or leave them dreaming, and let the boy survive.

Because the curse was cruelly simple: Only one could remain. The dreamer or the dream.

She watched him sleep that night, mouth barely parted, fingers twitching with memory not his own. How much weight could one soul carry? How long before his own self vanished into the stories of others?

Morning came. The town stirred—but only in the boy’s breath. She held the answer in her palm. A shard of sky, warm and pulsing.

All she had to do was place it in the shrine.

And choose.

Thanks for reading.

Author's Note:

Pilgrim’s Price is about the unseen cost of miracles—and the courage it takes to question whether something is worth saving if it means losing the one who held it all together. If this story moved you, I'd love to know your thoughts. Every heart, comment, and share helps give weight to stories that balance on difficult choices. 🌒