The Dreamer

Raising her arm, Sarah froze as she noticed something strange—her body was overlapping with another, as though she were an echo superimposed onto someone else. The sensation was surreal, a weightless connection that wasn't quite solid. Tentatively, she reached for the coffee cup in front of her, but her hand passed through it, the object remaining untouched by her presence. She couldn't interact with this world. Not physically, at least.

Her heart began to pound in her chest, anxiety blooming within her like a rising tide. The emotions around her swirled and rippled, but they didn't feel chaotic—they were oddly systematic, as if operating on a set rhythm. No peaks, no valleys. Just a steady, unchanging current of feeling that washed over her. It was unnerving.

Marcus's words echoed in her mind: Truth isn't always in the words—it's in the moments, the fragments left behind. She closed her eyes, willing herself to focus, to block out the anxiety threatening to consume her. She visualized the café, not just as a memory but as a living, breathing place, alive with energy. She focused on the smell of freshly brewed coffee, the warm aroma that always greeted her when she walked in. She imagined the reflection of her face in the polished tables after wiping them down, the smooth grain of the wood beneath her hand. She recalled the way Marcus moved—effortless, almost like a dance—as he served the customers, his presence grounding and steady.

And then, as she exhaled, she allowed herself to remember the ley lines. Those threads of magic woven into the very foundation of the café, pulsing and responding to Marcus like extensions of his will. Their glow, their hum, the way they seemed to shift with every decision he made—they were the heartbeat of the space, and they brought her a sense of calm, of connection.

Her once-racing heart began to slow, the rising wave of anxiety receding. As her breathing steadied, she faced the reality before her with newfound patience and serenity.

What is the best way to grasp a truth, let alone see one? she wondered, the question forming in her mind like a whisper. She let instinct guide her, allowing her astral-like body to follow the natural actions of the one she now thought of as "the Dreamer." If she couldn't touch or interact with this world directly, perhaps she could observe and understand by moving as they moved, feeling what they felt.

The Dreamer shifted subtly, her hands brushing over one another in a gentle, self-soothing motion. Sarah mirrored her movements, feeling the anxiety still clinging to the edges of the Dreamer's consciousness, balanced by the quiet comfort the café offered. The emotions became clearer, more vivid, as Sarah let herself sink deeper into the rhythm of the Dreamer's actions. She wasn't just watching anymore—she was beginning to feel the fragments of this person's truth.

And then, the moment shifted.

The sound of footsteps, light and deliberate, caught the Dreamer's attention. Sarah followed her gaze, her senses sharpening as she saw someone approaching. Her breath caught as recognition dawned. It was Marcus, walking toward them with that same calm, confident motion she had seen countless times before. He carried a cup of coffee in his hand, his expression kind but unreadable, as if he already understood everything the Dreamer needed.

Marcus stopped just outside the Dreamer's personal bubble, a respectful distance that spoke of quiet understanding. "Here you go," he said softly, extending the coffee toward her.

Sarah waited, expecting the Dreamer to respond, but the world around her remained still. She realized with growing clarity that simply observing wasn't enough. To uncover the truth, she would have to act. Marcus had said it himself—truth wasn't static. It was in the moments, in the choices made. If she wanted to grasp the fragments left behind by the Dreamer, she couldn't just be a passive observer. She had to immerse herself, to move as they would, to think and feel as they did.

But every person was different. Every truth was different. If she was going to succeed, she would have to act in a way that reflected the Dreamer as closely as possible.

Steeling herself, Sarah let her instincts take over. She focused on the Dreamer's lingering emotions—the anxiety, the longing for comfort—and reached for the connection they shared. As she allowed herself to sink deeper into the Dreamer's perspective, she prepared to act, to step forward into their truth.

And as she did, she felt the edges of the memory ripple, shifting and waiting for her to shape what came next.

Sarah took a slow, steadying breath, giving herself the time to process. The emotions swirling through her—the Dreamer's emotions—were vivid and consuming. Anxiety, loneliness, and a deep ache of discomfort rippled through her like waves. But beneath those feelings was something more, something buried yet persistent, just out of reach. She needed to respond, not just as herself but as the Dreamer, to grasp the truth of the moment.

She allowed the Dreamer's feelings to settle into her own, internalizing the discomfort and unease. How would they respond? Sarah wondered, letting the Dreamer's actions and emotions guide her. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft and hesitant.

"Oh, I didn't order this," she said, glancing away as though avoiding Marcus's gaze could somehow make him disappear. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, mimicking the anxious gestures she felt from the Dreamer. "It… it isn't mine."

The moment hung heavy in the air, and for a fleeting second, Sarah felt the Dreamer's anxiety spike. But then Marcus spoke, his tone calm and steady, a balm against the tension. "I know you didn't order it."

Sarah felt a ripple of surprise run through her as the Dreamer's head turned, their body shifting slightly to face Marcus. Reflexively, Sarah followed the movement, her astral-like form mimicking the subtle turn.

"But this coffee couldn't be anyone else's," Marcus said, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. He chuckled softly, the sound warm and unassuming, as though he'd just told himself the world's quietest joke. "You're a regular here, and the least I can do is give back to my loyal customers when they need it most."

He paused, his gaze steady but gentle, as if weighing his next words. "Please don't decline," he added, his voice softer now, almost imploring. "And don't worry about payment. This interaction… It's more than enough. Consider it my thanks."

Sarah felt the Dreamer's emotions shift again, their anxiety blending with something more fragile, more vulnerable. Shy and uncertain, Sarah replicated the Dreamer's reaction, letting the hesitation and awkwardness seep into her tone. "I—well, if you insist…" she murmured, her voice faltering slightly. "Thank you."

The words felt tentative, as though they were balancing on the edge of something deeper. Sarah watched as the Dreamer's hands reached out, her own following the motion instinctively. They lifted the mug carefully from the table where Marcus had placed it, cradling it like something fragile. The mug's warmth radiated into her palms as she brought it to her lips, taking a small, tentative sip.

The moment the liquid touched her tongue, the emotions shifted again. The lingering anxiety dissolved, replaced by a wave of grief so powerful it left Sarah breathless. The feeling of loss washed over her, overwhelming and raw, settling into her chest like a weight that couldn't be lifted. It wasn't just sadness—it was the deep, aching sorrow of someone mourning a loss they could never undo.

Sarah's vision blurred, and she realized her own eyes were welling up. A tear slipped down her cheek, warm against her skin, and she could feel the Dreamer's grief merging with her own. They've lost someone, she realized, the truth of the memory pressing into her heart. Someone close. Someone irreplaceable.

And then, just as suddenly as the grief had come, a thought emerged, clear and insistent. It wasn't hers—it belonged to the Dreamer. The words lingered at the edge of her consciousness, and Sarah felt compelled to speak them aloud. She opened her mouth, her voice trembling and thick with emotion.

"I miss you, Mom," she whispered, her tone so sorrowful it cracked under the weight of the words.

As the words left her lips, the grief began to fade, its heavy edges softening into something quieter. The Dreamer's sadness didn't vanish entirely, but it was no longer raw. In its place came a flicker of warmth, a feeling of comfort and connection. Sarah closed her eyes, letting the last traces of the memory settle around her like a blanket.

When she opened them again, the café had shifted. She was no longer an observer in the Dreamer's memory but back in the astral-like version of the café, the figures and emotions dissipating into the ether. Only Marcus remained, his face etched with confusion and worry as he stared at her.

"Sarah…" he said cautiously, his voice breaking the silence. "What just happened?"

She blinked at him, her hand instinctively brushing the tear from her cheek. "I…" she started, but her voice faltered. How could she explain what she had just experienced? How could she put into words the depth of the Dreamer's sorrow, their unspoken truth?

Instead, she met Marcus's gaze, her eyes still glistening with unshed tears. "I think… I saw a truth," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "And it wasn't just theirs. It became mine too."