The Town That Forgot How to Dream



By Muhammad Kashif

No one in the town of Darswell dreamed anymore. Not of oceans or skies or the faces of lost lovers. Not even of ordinary things like running late for work or losing teeth. The people simply slept — dark, empty, dreamless nights — and woke up with the same tired eyes.

It hadn’t always been that way. Once, Darswell was a place of storytellers, musicians, and wandering poets. The baker would hum songs that made the loaves rise faster; children built castles from clouds in their sleep. Then came the years of heartbreak — crops failing, factories closing, and families moving away. One by one, dreams withered like flowers left out in frost. No one noticed when they stopped dreaming entirely.

Until one morning, a cart rolled into town. It was covered in shimmering cloth, hung with tiny glass bottles that caught the sunlight. Inside each bottle swirled something like smoke, or maybe light, or maybe both. The traveler who led the cart was an old man with eyes that seemed to remember everything. He called himself The Dream Seller.

“Dreams, my friends!” he shouted in the square. “Sweet dreams, wild dreams, lost dreams found again!” The townsfolk laughed at first. “Dreams can’t be bought,” said the butcher. “We haven’t dreamed in years.” The Dream Seller only smiled. “Then perhaps it is time you remembered how.”

He stayed in the town square all afternoon. Curious people stopped to look, though most didn’t dare buy anything. The bottles glowed faintly — blue for joy, gold for courage, silver for love. Each was sealed with a wax stamp shaped like a crescent moon.

Only one person approached him — a thin, wide-eyed girl named Clara, who still believed in impossible things. “How much for one dream?” she asked. “For you?” said the Dream Seller. “Just a promise — that you’ll share it.” Clara nodded solemnly. She chose a bottle filled with soft, silver mist.

That night, while her mother snored beside the cold fireplace, Clara uncorked it. The mist poured out like breath on a winter morning. It swirled above her head, glowing brighter until the whole room shimmered with light. Then the dream began.

She saw herself walking through the town square, but everything was alive — the clock tower chimed songs instead of hours, the bakery smelled of laughter, and her father, who had passed away years ago, smiled at her from across the cobblestones. When she awoke, she was crying — but not from sadness. She ran through the streets shouting, “I dreamed! I dreamed!”

No one believed her until they saw the light still shining faintly on her hands. By the second night, word spread. Dozens gathered at the square, waiting for the Dream Seller. One by one, they bought bottles — a teacher, a widow, even the mayor. The dreams they released were different: some joyful, some painful. But each person woke up remembering something they had forgotten — the way it felt to hope.

Soon, colors returned to Darswell. The baker sang again. The children laughed louder. A few even began painting the walls of the old factory with bright shapes that looked suspiciously like clouds.

But then, one evening, the Dream Seller packed his cart. “Wait!” Clara cried. “Why are you leaving? There are still people who haven’t dreamed!” He smiled, his eyes soft. “My work here is done, little one. You see, dreams can’t live in bottles forever. They need hearts to carry them.” He handed her one last bottle, heavier than the others. “For when you forget again.”

Before she could thank him, the wind stirred — and both he and his cart dissolved into the silver mist of dawn.

Years passed. Clara grew up and became the town’s librarian. She kept the last bottle on her desk, unopened, though sometimes she swore it pulsed faintly under moonlight. One spring morning, a young boy entered the library. His eyes were wide and wondering — just like hers had been. “Miss Clara,” he said, “my mom says people used to dream here. Is that true?” Clara smiled. She took the bottle from her shelf and placed it in his hands. “Open it,” she whispered.

He did. And as the mist rose, filling the library with silver light, Clara heard the town outside beginning to sing again — soft, uncertain, but beautiful. For the first time in many years, Darswell dreamed once more.