The Dream That Bound Us All

Every night, the people of Velmir dreamed the same dream.

They would lie down in their little homes—men and women, children and elders—and the moment sleep overtook them, they’d find themselves walking a single, winding road under the same silver sky. The air always smelled of honey and smoke. The trees whispered the same words. And at the end of the path, a golden door shimmered.

No one could ever open it.

They had tried, in their dream-bodies, to push, pull, plead, or pry. But it would not budge. When morning came, they’d wake with aching hearts and the taste of longing.

For as long as anyone could remember, the dream had been a part of Velmir.

And for as long as anyone could remember, no one questioned it.

Until Lira.

Lira was born under a red moon, something the elders quietly frowned at. Her hair was not dark like the others’, but streaked with sun-gold. Her eyes were green when everyone else had brown.

She asked too many questions. She didn’t fear shadows. And most troubling of all—she remembered more than just the dream.

At five, she told her mother, “The door is sad.”

At seven, she said, “There’s someone inside it, waiting.”

At ten, she whispered, “I heard them say my name.”

The villagers shushed her gently at first. Then, not so gently.

“Dreams are sacred,” they said. “To question them is to break them.”

But Lira could not stop wondering.

Then, one summer night, everything changed.

Lira did not have the dream.

She did not see the winding road, or the silver sky, or the golden door.

She dreamed of a storm.

Dark clouds rolling over a desert of bones. A tree made of mirrors. A bird that spoke her secrets aloud. And a voice that said, “You are not the key. You are the lock.”

She woke up sweating.

And when she opened her window, she saw something impossible.

Smoke—dream-smoke—rose from the roofs of every house. All but hers.

The next day, the villagers stared.

Some in fear, some in pity.

Word spread fast: Lira did not dream with us.

That night, elders gathered in the square, torches in hand.

“Have you rejected the dream?” they asked.

“No,” Lira said. “It rejected me.”

Gasps echoed.

“But… I dreamed of something else. A storm. A tree. A truth.”

“You endanger the balance,” one elder said. “Dreams are our bond.”

“But don’t you wonder?” Lira asked. “Why we all dream the same thing? Why the door won’t open? What’s behind it?”

Silence.

They feared the question more than the answer.

That night, Lira slept alone in the forest.

And she dreamed again.

In this second dream, the golden door was broken.

Cracks spread across it like veins. A low hum shook the air. And the voice returned.

“They fear the truth. But you—will break the dream.”

Then she saw the village, asleep and unaware, each soul bound by golden thread to the door.

And in her hand, a small silver knife.

Lira understood.

The dream wasn’t a gift.

It was a prison.

Someone—or something—was feeding on the unity, the sameness, the surrender. The people had forgotten how to imagine anything else. They had locked their minds behind that door.

She had to wake them.

She returned to the village.

Not with fire, not with shouting—but with story.

She painted her dreams on walls—storm skies, mirror trees, wild deserts.

She whispered her dreams to children—who giggled and whispered them back.

She sang her dreams into lullabies.

And slowly, one by one, others began to dream differently.

A boy dreamed of flying with wings made of glass.

A woman dreamed of being made of fire, laughing.

A blind man saw for the first time in dreams and wept.

The golden door began to crumble.

The elders tried to stop it, but it was too late.

The dream had broken.

And in its place, a thousand new dreams bloomed like flowers after frost.

Years passed.

Velmir was never the same.

People remembered who they were beyond the shared dream.

And though some still missed the comfort of that silver road, most were grateful to walk their own paths.

As for Lira—she still dreams of doors.

But now, they open.