"The Dreamkeeper’s Journal"

Buried between breaths of midnight and the hush of dawn, the Sleeping World stretches far beyond the limits of waking life. It’s a realm shaped not by logic, but by longing. A place where lost memories wander, fears whisper in fog-laced forests, and hope flickers like starlight in an ever-shifting sky.

Few know this world exists. Fewer still know how to travel it.

And only one keeps the record of all who pass through: The Dreamkeeper.

I didn’t always believe in dreams. Not really. Sure, I had them—flashes of color, sounds, emotions that lingered like perfume after I woke. But I chalked them up to stress or late-night snacks. Until the night I found the journal.

It was buried in the attic of my grandmother’s old house, wrapped in moth-eaten silk and smelling faintly of lavender and dust. There was no title on the cover—just a sigil etched into leather, a swirling shape that seemed to shift when I looked too long.

Inside were pages and pages of handwritten entries, none signed. Some were poetic; others were crude sketches of impossible creatures. A few were entire maps of places I knew didn’t exist—valleys floating in the sky, spiral staircases leading to nowhere, oceans that whispered back when you called.

And then there were the warnings.

"Beware the Threadbare Men."

"The Mirror Lake remembers."

"Never eat the fruit of the Waking Tree."

I should’ve stopped reading. Closed the book and pretended I’d never seen it. But each word pulled at something deep in my chest—like a song I’d heard as a child but forgotten until now. That night, I slept with the journal on my nightstand.

And I dreamed.

It wasn’t like a normal dream. The air smelled real—wet earth, moss, a hint of smoke. I stood in a forest lit only by a silvery, pulsing moon. Trees arched like cathedral ceilings. The leaves hummed.

A figure stepped out from the shadows. Cloaked in gray, face hidden beneath a hood, the stranger carried a lantern that burned with a pale blue flame.

“You brought the journal,” they said.

My mouth opened, but no sound came.

“You’re not the first,” the figure continued. “But you might be the last.”

They turned, and I followed—because what else does one do in a dream where everything feels realer than waking?

We passed through dreamscapes like stepping through doors.

A library where books whispered their contents to listeners. A bridge of glass suspended above a sea of sleeping whales. A village where shadows walked without bodies, telling stories with hand-signs only they understood.

All the while, the Dreamkeeper (for I realized that’s who they were) explained.

“Everyone dreams. Few remember. Fewer still understand what they see. This world—this realm—is where pieces of our minds go to rest. The forgotten. The feared. The loved. We are all visitors here, but some become more.”

“More?” I asked, finally able to speak.

“Dreamers shape the realm. Dreamkeepers protect it.”

We stopped before a door hanging in midair, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. The Dreamkeeper turned to me.

“This is where your true journey begins.”

Inside was a room that looked like my childhood bedroom. Only—it wasn’t right. The colors were dimmed, like old photographs. Toys sat where I remembered, but they were wrong too—melting slightly at the edges, vibrating with soundless tension.

And on the bed sat... me.

A younger version. Six years old, hugging a teddy bear with a missing button eye. Crying.

I took a step forward, and the floor shifted beneath my feet. Not visually—emotionally. Like stepping into a memory.

My father yelling. The slam of a door. The feeling of being small and scared and alone.

I wanted to look away. Wanted to run. But the Dreamkeeper stood beside me, silent and still.

“This is a scar,” they finally said. “Not on your body, but your mind. The Sleeping World remembers what you forget. What you bury.”

I knelt beside my younger self. Reached out. And when our hands touched, I remembered—not just the pain, but the strength it took to survive it. The bravery in staying soft, even when the world turned hard.

The room shifted.

The colors brightened. The floor stopped quivering. My younger self smiled.

And vanished.

I awoke with the journal clutched to my chest.

The pages had changed.

Where once were warnings and sketches, now there were my own words. My own drawings. A new entry, written in my hand:

"Faced the Scar of Silence. Remembered strength. The Threadbare Men did not come tonight."

Each night since, I’ve returned. Sometimes as a witness. Sometimes as a guide. Sometimes just to listen to the dreams of others drifting like lanterns across the sky.

I’m still learning.

Still healing.

Still writing.

But now I know the truth:

Dreams are not meaningless. They are not random.

They are messages. Maps. Warnings. Wishes.

And the Dreamkeeper’s Journal is never finished.

Because the Sleeping World has secrets still.