❤The Last Night in My Dream City❤

I have always believed that a city is more than its buildings, streets, and monuments. A city is a living soul, built from the laughter of its people, the footsteps on its pavements, and the countless memories stitched into its nights and mornings. For me, that city was more than just a home—it was my dream. Yet dreams are fragile, and sometimes they break. This is the story of the last night in my dream city.

The evening began quietly, almost deceptively. The sun was sinking behind the skyline, painting the glass towers in fiery orange and soft purple. I remember standing on the balcony of my small apartment, looking out at the view I had cherished for years. From there, I could see the old clock tower that had marked every passing hour of my life, the winding streets where children played, and the grand avenue that pulsed like a vein through the city’s heart.

But that night, something was different. The streets below were not filled with laughter or the usual rush of traffic. Instead, a heavy silence hovered, broken only by the distant crackle of fire and the occasional scream carried by the wind. My dream city, once alive with hope, had become a battlefield of fear and despair.

I decided to walk one last time through its heart.

The streets felt hauntingly familiar yet painfully broken. The bakery where I once bought bread with my mother was shuttered, its sign hanging loose by one nail. The bookstore that had given me my first novel was reduced to charred remains, pages scattered like ashes of forgotten dreams. Every corner carried a memory, and every memory was now draped in sorrow.

At the central square, I stopped. It was once the pride of the city—a place where lovers met under the fountain, where musicians played under lampposts, and where the people gathered to celebrate festivals. That night, it looked like a graveyard. The fountain was dry, its marble cracked. Benches were overturned, and shattered glass sparkled faintly in the dim light, like stars fallen to earth.

But amidst the wreckage, there were still people. A few sat quietly, whispering prayers. Some clutched their belongings, preparing to leave forever. And then there were those who stayed not out of choice but out of love for a city they could not abandon, even in its last breath.

I remember one old man sitting at the base of the fountain, playing a worn-out violin. His hands trembled, but the melody carried across the square, soft and defiant. It wasn’t a song of joy, nor was it one of despair. It was a song of remembrance—a reminder that even in the face of ruin, beauty could still exist.

I felt my chest tighten. I wanted to cry, but no tears came. Instead, I walked toward the river, where I had spent countless evenings watching the reflection of lights dance across the water. The river, once clear and alive, was murky and littered with debris. Still, when the moon rose above it, its light shimmered faintly on the surface, as though trying to remind me that even broken water can carry reflections of the sky.

Midnight approached. I found myself on a rooftop, overlooking the city. From there, I saw it all—the smoldering buildings, the broken roads, the small clusters of people clinging to each other. Yet, I also saw flickers of light. Candles burned in windows, children held lanterns, families lit small fires to keep warm. Those little lights, fragile and trembling, seemed to say: We are still here. The city may fall, but its spirit will not.

The last night in my dream city was not marked by explosions or chaos—it was marked by silence. A deep, heavy silence that spoke louder than any sound. The silence of neighbors who no longer greeted each other, of shopkeepers who had closed their doors forever, of streets that once sang with life but now waited for their final dawn.

I stayed awake until morning, watching as the first light of day touched the ruins. The rising sun, stubborn as always, painted the broken skyline in gold, as if trying to give the city a dignified farewell. For a moment, I could almost believe that it was still my dream city—still alive, still beautiful. But dreams, once broken, cannot be repaired.

That morning, I left. I carried nothing but a small bag, yet my heart was heavy with memories. Every step away from the city felt like tearing a piece of myself apart. Still, I knew I had to go. The city I loved was gone, but the love it gave me would remain.

Even now, far from its streets, I close my eyes and I am there again. I hear the laughter of children echoing through the alleys, I smell the bread from the old bakery, I see the lights dancing on the river. My dream city is gone in reality, but it lives on inside me—alive, eternal, untouchable.

The last night in my dream city was not just an ending. It was a reminder that even when places fall, memories rise. A city may crumble, but its soul lives on in those who carry its story. And I will carry mine, for as long as I breathe.