The Sleepless Watcher

In the town of Elmsbridge, time does not flow—it drips.

Like rain from a cracked gutter, slow and quiet,

until you forget the sound of silence.

It is the kind of place

where clocks tick too loudly,

and shadows grow tired of their shapes.

There, in that timeless hush,

lived a man with open eyes

and dreams forever locked behind his ribs.

His name—Henry Vale.

But names matter little

when you no longer belong to the waking or the sleeping.

He walked the streets when the world exhaled.

At 2:47 AM,

at 4:09 AM,

never in daylight,

never under the sun’s judgment.

He did not sleep.

Not for a day, a month, nor even a decade.

The townsfolk whispered about him

like children whisper of monsters that don’t bite.

“He’s always there,” said old Mrs. Fenn.

“Under the bakery’s eave, watching the stars.”

“Writing,” said the schoolteacher. “But not poems. Maps. Of places that aren’t real.”

Some called him cursed.

Others said he was keeping something at bay.

But no one asked him why.

You don’t question the last candle in a dark room.

I was a traveler of tales.

A collector of myths.

A poet in exile from my own sleep.

And so, I came to Elmsbridge with a notebook and noise,

searching for a man who had traded dreams

for something else—

something heavier.

I found him one fog-drunk night,

sitting by the dry fountain,

still as stone,

eyes full of secrets he could no longer forget.

“Henry Vale?” I asked.

He did not answer.

He looked at me—through me—

as though I were a déjà vu returning to him.

Then he nodded.

“You’ve come to listen,” he said.

“Not to ask.”

And so I listened.

“I used to sleep,” he began.

“But one night, I dreamed too deep.

Deeper than memory.

Deeper than mercy.”

“There was a staircase,” he said. “Descending into something older than thought.

I walked it in my sleep.

And something looked back.”

He tapped the side of his head gently.

“Since then, I do not dream.

Because I do not dare.

Sleep is a permission I will never grant again.”

At first, I did not believe him.

It sounded like a beautiful madness.

The kind artists suffer,

and poets envy.

But each night I returned,

drawn like a moth to an unseen lantern.

He showed me his journals.

Pages worn thin by ink and warning.

Lines that bent like branches.

Words that moved if I stared too long.

Languages that made my teeth itch.

“What do you write?” I asked.

“Memories,” he replied. “Not mine. Theirs.”

“Who are they?”

He only said:

“You’ll see them if you stop dreaming long enough.”

And so, like a fool seduced by myth,

I tried.

Twenty-minute naps.

Salted bread and bitter tea.

Eyes open longer than nature intended.

And then—on the seventh day—

the mirror blinked before I did.

I heard a soft knock from inside my closet.

The clock struck 3:33 AM

and stayed there—

stuck like a held breath.

In the corner of my eye,

a figure stood without casting shadow.

I fled to Henry.

“What is it?” I cried.

He stared, not at me, but through me.

As if measuring how deep I’d fallen.

“You saw it,” he whispered. “You’re marked now.”

“They’ve noticed your noticing.”

“What do they want?” I asked.

“Witnesses,” he said.

“Poets.

Those who write it down.”

I ran.

Left Elmsbridge behind.

Burned my notes.

Tried to forget.

I sleep now.

Pills. Noise. TV. Anything to keep the veil closed.

But every night, at 3:33 AM,

I wake without reason.

The air tastes metallic.

My reflection is slower than my face.

And sometimes—

just sometimes—

I hear a voice that isn’t mine, whispering:

“Stay awake, little poet.”

“The world still dreams of you.”

So I write. I wait. I wonder.

If Henry still watches.

Or if now… someone watches him.

Some truths should stay behind eyelids.

But some of us were born to stare back.