The Dream That Binds Us

Nobody remembers when the dreaming began.

Some say it started after the war, others say it began when the last train left the station, rusting quietly on its tracks as vines claimed its wheels. But in Evershade, a village tucked between mist-covered hills, everyone dreams the same dream—every night.

And no one speaks of it.

The dream always begins the same: a soft wind, a forest of silver-leaved trees, and a path that winds toward a mountain glowing in the moonlight. The villagers walk this path silently, never straying, never speaking. Just walking. Together.

And when they wake, they go about their day as if nothing strange has happened. But they all know. Deep down. The dream connects them. And it keeps them safe.

Until Lina was born.

Lina was strange from the start. While other children mimicked their parents and played with quiet laughter, Lina would stare at the sky as if she were listening to something it hadn’t said yet. She hummed tunes no one else recognized. She painted doors that didn't exist and shadows shaped like birds.

And then one night, on her tenth birthday, she had a different dream.

Instead of the silver forest, she stood at a crossroads. Three paths lay before her—one of gold, one of thorns, and one of broken mirrors. She heard whispers, laughter, and the distant sound of her own voice calling back to her. She didn’t know which path to take.

She woke up screaming.

The village healer, old Marta, was summoned. Marta examined Lina, fed her tea made from violet roots, and told her gently, “You must not stray from the path. You belong with us. Dream like the rest.”

But Lina couldn’t.

The dream changed for her every night. Sometimes she flew through strange cities made of books. Sometimes she was underwater, speaking to glowing fish. Sometimes she saw things—too real to be dreams: her mother crying alone in the garden, her father whispering to a mirror.

Soon, others began to change too.

Little Tomas, two doors down, dreamed of a door that opened into fire.

Old Jarek, the blacksmith, dreamed of a tower he couldn’t climb.

Each began to forget the silver path. The shared dream started to fade.

And the village grew afraid.

At the town meeting, the elders gathered beneath the old tree.

“This child is breaking the dream,” someone said.

“She’ll destroy us all,” said another.

But Marta said nothing. Her eyes were on Lina.

That night, the villagers drank special tea brewed from a secret herb—a practice as old as the dream itself. Lina refused hers.

“I want to know the truth,” she said.

She fell asleep with the full moon overhead and dreamt of the silver forest again—but this time, no one was on the path. The trees bent toward her, whispering: You are awake. The others still sleep.

In the center of the forest, she found a stone well.

Inside, swirling like storm clouds, were the dreams of every villager: hopes, fears, secrets.

And at the bottom, buried beneath it all, was a memory.

Not hers. The village’s.

A memory of a war long forgotten. Of fire and loss. Of a decision made in desperation:

To dream the same dream. To hide the pain. To forget.

The tea, the rituals, the silence—it was all part of the spell. Not magic, exactly. But intention woven into belief.

Lina saw her parents before the forgetting. Laughing, dancing, mourning. She saw herself as a baby, born just as the dream began to fray. A child of grief and hope.

And she understood.

When she woke, she told them.

She stood in the square and said, “You dream to forget. But forgetting isn’t healing. I remember. I dream for myself. And now you can too.”

Some wept.

Some turned away.

But a few listened.

That night, for the first time in generations, Evershade did not share a dream.

Instead, a thousand stories bloomed like spring flowers in sleeping minds.

One dreamed of dancing with lost love.

Another, of flying through stars.

Some dreams were sad. Others joyful. All were real.

And Lina? She dreamt of silver trees again—only this time, the forest had many paths, and people walked all of them, laughing, crying, waking.

Together.