Without a Dream, the Future Fades

There was a time when Ayan believed he was destined for greatness.

As a boy growing up in a small village tucked between dusty hills and whispering winds, he would lie on the rooftop at night and trace constellations with his fingers, dreaming of becoming an astronaut. Not just any astronaut — one who’d walk the stars, who’d make his mother proud, and show the world that even a child from nowhere could reach the infinite.

But dreams, like fragile glass, crack under pressure.

When his father passed away suddenly when Ayan was 15, the silence that entered their home was louder than any scream. His mother, worn and weathered from years of sacrifice, began working double shifts. Ayan, once known for his bright eyes and brilliant scores, dropped out of school to help.

The days blurred into years.

[7/3, 8:03 PM] Chat GPT: He worked as a delivery boy, then a mechanic, then at a cold storage unit on the city’s outskirts. He no longer looked at the stars. He barely looked at mirrors. Each morning was routine. Each night, exhaustion. Somewhere along the way, the boy who had once promised himself the galaxy forgot what it meant to even look up.

*Until one night.*

It was cold. The kind of cold that creeps into bones and thoughts alike. He was walking home, shoulders slumped, hands numb, when he passed a dusty window with old books behind it. He’d walked by this shop a hundred times, but something made him stop this time.

One book caught his eye: *"The Dreamer’s Manual."*

Something stirred.

He stepped in. The bell on the door chimed like a forgotten memory. The shopkeeper was old, with eyes that had seen too much but judged nothing. Ayan pointed to the book.

"Looking for a dream?" the old man asked gently.

Ayan half-smiled, half-sighed. "I used to have one."

The man didn’t press. He simply handed him the book. “Take it. No charge. But promise me — open it before sunrise.”

That night, under the flickering light of a second-hand bulb, Ayan opened the dusty book.

The first page read:

*“Dreams don’t die. They wait. Quietly. Until you remember them.”*

He froze.

[7/3, 8:03 PM] Chat GPT: Each page that followed was a mixture of stories, thoughts, and simple questions that dug deep. "When did you stop believing?" "What if tomorrow needs the version of you you buried yesterday?" "What would happen if you tried again?"

He didn’t sleep that night.

By morning, something had changed. Not a miracle. Not a transformation. Just a spark. Small. Flickering. But real.

---

*Over the next months*, Ayan began reclaiming pieces of himself. He re-enrolled in night school. He started reading again — books on science, space, technology. He watched documentaries instead of wasting hours on mindless scrolling. The money was still tight. The work was still exhausting. But now, each step felt like it was headed somewhere.

He applied for an online scholarship in aerospace studies — and got it.

His mother, though tired, smiled more. She started packing him extra food, whispering “For your stars” as she handed over the lunchbox.

Years passed. Ayan didn’t become an astronaut. But he did become something else: a dream-igniter. He started a local program for village kids called *"Eyes to the Sky,"* teaching them science, coding, and — most of all — the art of dreaming boldly.

One day, a little girl asked him, “Sir, have you been to space?”

[7/3, 8:03 PM] Chat GPT: Ayan smiled. “Not yet. But I touched the sky once… when I remembered my dream.”

---

*The future only fades when we stop lighting it.*

And sometimes, all it takes is one spark. One book. One question. One memory.

Because dreams — real dreams — never die.

They wait.

For us to return.