The Last Dream Seller

In the heart of a sprawling neon-lit city, where skyscrapers scraped the stars and screens flashed a thousand colors, there was a marketplace unlike any other. This was the Bazaar of Dreams, a place where people bought and sold fragments of imagination. Here, dreams were no longer just fleeting shadows of the mind—they were bottled, traded, and consumed like precious jewels.

Amir had walked the stalls of this bazaar since he was a child, watching the wealthy purchase dreams of flying through galaxies, dancing at royal courts, or reliving childhood joys they had long forgotten. The rich displayed dreams like trophies, sipping them at parties to impress guests, while the poor stood behind barriers, their eyes full of longing.

Amir belonged to the latter. His life was one of endless shifts at the recycling plant, his wages barely enough to cover food and rent. But he had one purpose that kept him going: his mother. Once strong and full of laughter, she was now frail, her lungs weakening each day, her voice a whisper of the woman she had been. The doctors had told Amir she had little time left. What they could not offer her was peace of mind. That was what Amir wanted to give her—a final dream to take her away from pain.

For ten years, Amir saved. He skipped meals, wore secondhand clothes, and walked to work to avoid spending on the subway. Every coin went into a hidden box beneath his bed. By the time the box was full, he had enough to buy only a single dream—the kind reserved for dignitaries and aristocrats. He wanted nothing less for her last journey.

The Bazaar was louder than usual the night he finally entered with his fortune. Lanterns floated above stalls, merchants called out their wares, and glass vials shimmered in rainbow hues, each containing a fragment of wonder. Some bottles pulsed like heartbeats; others glowed with soft lullabies.

Amir’s heart pounded as he approached the most renowned merchant: Elias, the Last Dream Seller. Unlike other merchants, Elias did not shout. He sat calmly behind his stall, his white beard glowing faintly in the lantern light, his eyes carrying the weight of centuries. His table held only a few bottles, but they radiated with an otherworldly beauty.

Amir placed his box on the table and whispered, “I want a dream for my mother. She has little time left.”

Elias studied him carefully. “Do you understand what you ask, boy? Dreams are not trinkets. They are pieces of souls, fragments of what could have been. A final dream is no mere escape—it is a farewell.”

Amir nodded, tears burning his eyes. “She deserves to leave this world with light, not sorrow.”

The old man opened the box, counting the coins with long, deliberate fingers. When he was done, he pulled out a vial unlike any Amir had seen. It glowed golden, its liquid swirling like sunlight caught in water. The cork was sealed with silver thread.

“This,” Elias said, “is the Dream of Homecoming. Within it lies every joy she ever knew, every embrace she ever cherished, every field she once ran through. It will carry her where she most belongs.”

Amir clutched the vial to his chest as though it were life itself. He thanked Elias, his voice breaking, and ran home.

That night, he sat by his mother’s bed. She smiled weakly at him, her hand trembling in his. “You’ve been gone so long today,” she whispered.

“I brought you something,” Amir said, holding up the glowing vial. “A gift. Your last journey will not be in pain.”

Her tired eyes widened as he uncorked it. A soft glow filled the room, wrapping her in warmth. She inhaled deeply, and her face relaxed for the first time in years. Amir watched as her breathing steadied, her lips curling into a faint smile. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she whispered, “I see it… the fields… your father… home.”

Tears streamed down Amir’s face as he held her hand, listening to her voice fade into silence. The golden glow lingered for a few moments before dissolving into the air. She was gone, but her last moments were filled with peace.

Amir sat there long after, clutching her hand. He thought of Elias, of the Bazaar, of the countless souls who had sought escape in bottled dreams. But as dawn crept through the window, he realized something. Dreams were not just luxuries for the rich—they were the last refuge of the human heart. And for his mother, it had been enough.

He stood, weary but unbroken, and whispered into the morning light: “Rest well, Mother. Your dream is safe.”