The Last Dream Weaver

They said it began the night the skies went silent.
No thunder, no wind, no whisper of clouds, only a stillness so deep that even the stars seemed afraid to move.
In that stillness, humanity lost something they didn’t know they needed: the ability to dream.
At first, no one noticed. People still worked, ate, scrolled, built. But slowly, color drained from the world, ideas stopped coming, music turned mechanical, love felt rehearsed. The Dream Council told them it was an “evolutionary phase.” Those dreams were distractions, outdated mechanisms of a chaotic past.
But under the cracked glass domes of the New Cities, one girl still dreamed.
Her name was Kaelara.
Kaelara was seventeen when she realized she was breaking the law.
Not by stealing or fighting, but by closing her eyes.
Every night, when the sirens dimmed and the city's electric hum fell silent, she’d slip beneath her blanket and let her mind drift. Colors would rise, vivid blues, burning golds, rivers of light, faces of people she’d never met.
And when she woke, her pillow was dusted with something glowing, dreamdust, the forbidden residue of imagination.
Her grandmother, once a poet before words were standardized, warned her:
“Hide your dreams, Kaelara. The Council hunts what it cannot control.”
But Kaelara couldn’t stop. Dreams were her oxygen.
And one night, she dreamed of a forest that shouldn’t exist, luminous trees with glass leaves, rivers singing songs in forgotten tongues, and a voice whispering:
“Find me before the last dawn.”
The Dream Council wasn’t just a government.
It was a machine, built to keep order in a world without chaos.
They patrolled with drones that scanned for dream signatures. Anyone found with REM irregularities was taken to the Facility, where “recalibration” erased the last traces of imagination.
Kaelara kept her head low. But one morning, as she walked through the corridor of the Institute, a figure in black armor stopped her. His visor glowed blue.
“Kaelara Aven,” he said. “You have been selected for neural assessment.”
Her heart froze.
Dream dust clung to her fingertips.
But when she looked into his visor, she saw something strange, a flicker of light, like starlight trapped behind glass. For a second, she could swear he whispered, so softly she almost imagined it:
“Run.”
She ran.
Through neon alleys and deserted plazas until she reached the city’s edge, where the walls curved into fog. Beyond it lay the Wastelands, the zone where dreams supposedly went to die. No one returned from there.
But Kaelara did not hesitate. The voice from her dream echoed again:
“Find me before the last dawn.”
Through the mist, she stumbled upon ruins, ancient pillars entwined with glowing vines. And at the center, a pool of silver light shimmered like liquid moonlight.
She reached out. The surface rippled, and from it, a figure emerged.
A man, half-shadow, half-light. His eyes were galaxies.
He smiled as if he’d waited eternity for her.
“You came,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“I am Lior, the first Dream Weaver.”
Lior told her the truth.
Before the Council, before the silencing, there were thousands of Dream Weavers beings who could shape the fabric of reality through imagination. They built worlds, created rainbows, healed sorrow with stories.
But the rulers feared them. Dreams made people unpredictable, powerful, free.
So they built the Council, created machines to drain dream energy from the sky, and erased all memory of the Weavers.
Only one survived, Lior, bound inside the Dream Pool.
And now his prison was fading.
“Kaelara,” he said softly, “you are my echo, the last of our kind. The Dream Seed lives within you.”
He placed a hand on her chest. Warmth flooded through her veins, lighting her from within. For the first time, Kaelara saw the world not as it was, but as it could be, full of color, emotion, and life.
“If you awaken it,” Lior warned, “the Council will come. But if you don’t, humanity will forget what it means to feel.”
They came at dawn.
Armored drones tore through the mist, flooding the ruins with white light. At their center stood the Dream Warden, the same man who had once whispered, Run.
“Kaelara Aven,” he said, his voice distorted. “You are charged with dream treason.”
But behind his visor, his eyes burned with conflict.
“Let me help you,” he whispered. “You can’t fight them all.”
“Then dream with me,” she said.
And for the first time in centuries, the air shimmered with something new, hope.
Kaelara closed her eyes. The world trembled.
The vines grew, the ruins glowed, and from her hands poured rivers of color, dreams taking form, tearing through the mechanical sky.
The Council’s drones malfunctioned, their screens filling with impossible images of children laughing, oceans roaring, lovers kissing beneath constellations long forgotten.
The Dream Warden fell to his knees, his visor cracking. Beneath it was a tear.
“I remember,” he whispered.
But the Council’s Core, the machine that powered the dreamless world, began to awaken. Alarms wailed. The sky turned crimson.
Lior appeared beside her, fading.
“The Core feeds on imagination,” he said. “It will destroy all that you’ve created unless you stop it.”
“How?”
“By giving it the one thing it cannot consume, a dream born from love.”
Kaelara turned to the Warden, whose name she finally learned, Aren.
“If I do this,” she said, “I may not survive.”
“Then let me dream with you,” he replied.
They joined hands. The Core’s storm raged above them. Kaelara closed her eyes one last time, and dreamed not of fear, but of a world reborn.
Children painting skies with laughter. Old poets reciting verses under starlit trees. Music in every heartbeat.
As her dream spread, the Core’s light began to flicker, then burst into a billion fragments of stardust, cascading across the sky.
The Dream Returns
The next morning, the world awoke to color.
People cried without knowing why. Flowers grew through metal streets. Children spoke of seeing angels in their sleep.
No one remembered the name Kaelara.
But when they closed their eyes at night, a whisper drifted through the stars:
“Dream boldly. The world lives through your dreams.”
And somewhere, beyond time, in a garden of silver light.
Kaelara and Lior watched over the reborn world, weaving dreams for those who had forgotten how.

🌙 The End

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