The Library of Forgotten Dreams

I always thought libraries were boring. Rows upon rows of dusty books, the faint smell of mildew, and that stern librarian who seemed to have a sixth sense for detecting any whisper above a decibel. A place where dreams go to die in silence. But that was before I stumbled upon The Library of Forgotten Dreams.

It was a Tuesday—because, of course, these things always happen on the most mundane day of the week. I had just finished yet another disappointing work meeting, where my boss explained (again) why my "big ideas" were impractical and why I should "stay in my lane." Instead of heading home to my tiny apartment and reheated leftovers, I wandered aimlessly through the city, avoiding responsibility like it was an aggressive street fundraiser.

That’s when I noticed a narrow alley between two buildings, a gap I was certain had never been there before. The kind of alley that looks suspiciously like a portal to another dimension—or at the very least, a place where one could get mugged. But curiosity won. (It always does.)

At the end of the alley stood an old building with a faded wooden sign: The Library of Forgotten Dreams.

Now, any sensible person would have turned around, chalking this up to a lack of caffeine and a surplus of bad life choices. But me? Sensible? Ha.

I pushed open the heavy door, and the scent of old parchment and something vaguely nostalgic (was that… my grandmother’s perfume?) filled my lungs. The interior was vast—far bigger than it had any right to be. Shelves stretched infinitely in every direction, filled with books of all shapes and sizes, their spines worn and names unfamiliar.

An elderly man, dressed like he had just stepped out of a Dickens novel, sat behind a grand wooden desk, peering at me over tiny round glasses. He had the air of someone who had seen everything and yet was still mildly amused by it.

“Welcome,” he said, voice as dry as an old manuscript. “Here, we house the dreams people have forgotten.”

I blinked. “Forgotten dreams? Like, literal dreams?”

He nodded. “Yes. When people abandon their dreams—whether from fear, doubt, or the slow erosion of time—they find their way here, waiting to be reclaimed.”

Now, I had abandoned many dreams.

Becoming a rock star? Gone.

Traveling the world? Left behind.

Mastering the art of baking without burning everything? Utterly forsaken.

Could they be here?

“Feel free to look around,” the old man gestured.

I wandered the aisles, running my fingers along the spines. Titles called out to me like old friends whose names I’d forgotten. The Great Canine Adventure—ah, my childhood dream of owning a dog and going on epic quests together. The Guitar Hero Chronicles—the fleeting fantasy of becoming the next Hendrix before I realized guitar required actual practice. The Cosmic Explorer—that time I thought I’d be an astronaut despite failing high school physics spectacularly.

Then, I found it. A small, unassuming book with my name embossed on the cover. I hesitated before pulling it out. The title read: The Journey Untraveled.

Flipping through the pages, memories crashed over me. The dream of backpacking through Europe, meeting strangers who became stories, experiencing life beyond the safety of my daily routine. I had shelved that dream years ago, buried it beneath practicality and an ever-growing to-do list.

“You can take it,” the old man said, appearing beside me like a ghost. “But remember, reclaiming a dream means pursuing it.”

I clutched the book tightly. The weight of it felt real, grounding. “And if I don’t?”

“Then it finds its way back here. Like all forgotten things.”

I left the library with the book pressed to my chest. Outside, the world felt different—sharper, brighter, as if someone had turned up the saturation on reality. The sound of traffic was clearer, the air smelled fresher. Maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe not.

I turned back, wanting to get one last look at the alley.

But it was gone.

No narrow passageway, no hidden door, no grand library filled with the echoes of lost ambitions. Just an unremarkable stretch of brick wall, as if it had never existed at all.

I glanced down at the book in my hands. The Journey Untraveled.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time to change that.