Iris’s Dream — The Sky That Didn’t Have to Mean Anything

Reincarnated as a Background Character — Boss Fell in Love With Me

Iris's Dream — The Sky That Didn't Have to Mean Anything

She dreamed of an expansive sky that held no expectations for understanding.

It wasn't decipherable, wrapped in layers of hidden meanings or esoteric symbols.

It wasn't foretelling a future, carrying with it an air of prophecy.

It wasn't observed by an array of watchful systems, nor was it evaluated by rigid scripts that sought to impose order.

It simply existed.

A vast canvas splashed with soft, warm reds, merging seamlessly into tranquil blue-gray hues that evoked a sense of calm.

Fluffy clouds floated lazily by, like thoughts racing through her mind—slow, unfinished, yet full of potential.

Sunlight streamed down, curling and flickering like peals of laughter seeping from beneath a cozy blanket, filling the air with a warmth that invited serenity.

In the depths of the dream, she found herself sitting underneath a magnificent tree that defied the constraints of the waking world, a creation of pure imagination and wonder.

Its bark shimmered with a silver sheen, reflecting the light in a way that seemed almost magical. Its leaves were as delicate as paper, fragile yet ethereal.

As the leaves fell gently to the ground, they seemed to whisper tiny stories, secrets carried on the breeze before dissolving softly into the grass beneath her.

Their murmurs were not loud, nor particularly sad; they were simply echoes of tales left unfinished.

And in that space, everything felt okay with being incomplete—embracing ambiguity without a hint of discomfort.

Raze was by her side, sprawled on the verdant grass with his arms folded comfortably behind his head.

This time, however, he didn't inquire about her painting, an unusual and refreshing change from his typical curiosity.

He didn't need to ask.

Because, in that moment, she wasn't painting for anyone other than herself.

She was merely translating the visions the dream offered into strokes on a canvas.

A horizon crafted from melodies she couldn't quite hear but felt resonating within her.

A girl who bore her own name, reflecting her essence.

A world that exuded kindness without requiring justification or rationale.

As if summoned by the shared tranquility of the moment, Velzeria emerged at the edge of the hill.

She wasn't adorned with wings. No regal crown rested atop her head. There were no remnants of ash trailing behind her.

She stood there, barefoot, grounded in the moment.

In her hand, she cradled a steaming mug of tea, lifting it to her lips for a sip only to grimace slightly at the flavor.

"Too sweet," she admitted with a half-hearted smile.

Iris, sensing the familiar warmth of camaraderie, returned the smile, her eyes sparkling with soft understanding.

"I know," she replied, as if sharing a secret only they could perceive.

Then, enveloping them, came a profound silence.

But it wasn't the suffocating kind that weighed heavily on the soul.

It was the kind of silence that resonates with trust, where words were unnecessary, and the connection deepened in shared understanding.

In the tapestry of the dream, the sky began yet another transformation in color.

Not as a result of unfolding drama.

Not born from impending threats.

It shifted simply because it desired to.

A self-indulgent, gentle sky.

Vibrant and alive, reveling in its existence for no one's sake but its own.

Drawing in a breath, Iris found the courage to whisper:

"I think this is what freedom looks like."

[Dream Memory Stored – Tag: "Unwritten Peace"]

Emotional Value: High

Anchor Strength: Lasting

Risk: None

System Response: Offline

When Iris finally awoke, she found that the painting was already well underway, colors swirling on the canvas, eagerly awaiting her finishing touch.

She had no memory of lifting the brush, the moment of creation a mystery to her.

But the strokes that caressed the canvas were undeniably hers.

Soft.

Rich with dream-like hues.

And beautifully true.

In the bottom-right corner of the painting, already dry to the touch—

Her signature stood proud and clear.

Just her name, written with unpretentious simplicity.

No class, no title to restrain it.

Only

Iris

To be continued...