Every night, the dreams came. Not in a pattern, not in a sequence, but always with the same quiet intensity. At first, they were just fragments—half-remembered voices, glimpses of places that didn’t exist, the scent of burning sage in an empty room. But soon, they became more vivid, more persistent. The man who had no name, or perhaps he had once had one and forgotten it, began to notice things. He would wake up with his hands trembling, the taste of copper on his tongue, and the feeling that something had been watching him while he slept. He didn’t know how long this had been going on. Time blurred like ink in water, and he couldn’t tell if it was days or weeks. His apartment was small, dimly lit, and filled with the hum of a refrigerator that never quite stopped. The walls were bare, save for a single painting of a forest at twilight, its trees leaning as if bowing to some unseen force. The dreams started with a door. It wasn’t a door he recognized, but it felt familiar, as if he had walked through it before. It stood in the middle of a field of white grass, swaying gently despite there being no wind. When he opened it, the air inside was thick and warm, like the inside of a cathedral during a summer service. Inside, the world was different. The sky was a deep violet, and the stars moved slowly, as if they were alive. He saw figures walking in the distance, their faces obscured by shadows. They didn’t speak, but he could feel their presence, pressing against his mind like a whisper just out of reach. One night, he found himself standing in front of a mirror that wasn’t in his apartment. It was in a hallway of a house he had never seen, its frame carved with symbols that looked like they had been etched by someone who didn’t understand what they were doing. When he looked into it, he saw not his own reflection, but a version of himself that was older, wearier, and holding a key. The key was rusted, and when he reached out, the mirror shattered, leaving behind a trail of silver dust that smelled of rain and iron. He began to collect the remnants of the dreams. A feather from a bird that didn’t exist, a coin that had no denomination, a lock of hair that was neither black nor brown but something in between. He kept them in a jar on his windowsill, where they glowed faintly when the moon was full. He didn’t know why he did it, only that it felt necessary, like a ritual he had performed before and forgotten. One evening, he dreamed of a city built entirely of glass. Every building was transparent, and inside, people moved like ghosts, their bodies flickering in and out of existence. He wandered through the streets, hearing laughter that didn’t belong to anyone, and seeing reflections of himself in every window. In the center of the city stood a clock tower, its hands spinning backward. When he approached it, the clock struck midnight, and the entire city dissolved into mist. He woke up gasping, the sound of the clock still echoing in his ears. The next day, he found a letter on his doorstep. It was addressed to him, though he had no idea who might have sent it. The paper was old, yellowed, and the ink was smudged as if it had been written in haste. The message was short: *“You are not alone.”* He didn’t sleep for three days. He sat in his apartment, staring at the walls, listening for the sound of footsteps in the silence. He thought about the door, the mirror, the city of glass. He wondered if he was dreaming, or if the dreams were trying to tell him something. He had begun to suspect that he was not the dreamer, but the dream itself. On the fourth night, he dreamed of a river. Not a real river, but one that flowed through the space between dreams. Its waters were dark, and when he stepped into it, he felt himself being pulled under. He floated for what felt like hours, until he reached the other side. There, he found a door identical to the first one, but this time, it was open. Inside, there was nothing. Just a vast, empty room with no ceiling, no floor, no walls. And in the center, a single chair. He sat down, and the moment his back touched the seat, the room began to change. The walls melted away, revealing a vast library filled with books that whispered when he passed. He reached for one, and it opened on its own, revealing a page that read: *“You are the dreamer, and you are the dream.”* Then the lights went out. He woke up in his bed, the room silent, the sun rising outside. The jar on the windowsill was empty. The key, the feather, the coin—all gone. He didn’t remember taking them. He didn’t remember closing the door. But somehow, he knew. He had left something behind. And now, it was waiting for him.