Every night, the dream came. Not always the same, but always strange. It began with a door. A tall, wooden door with a brass knob that gleamed in the dim light of a hallway no one could remember seeing before. The air was thick and heavy, like it had been trapped for centuries. The walls were lined with books, their spines cracked and yellowed, their titles written in a language that didn’t exist. No matter how many times she dreamed it, the door never opened on its own. She named the dream "The Door" in her journal, scribbling the details as soon as she woke. The first time, she thought it was just a normal nightmare. But then it happened again, and again, until she started counting the days between visits. Each time, the door looked slightly different—sometimes the wood was darker, sometimes the brass was tarnished. Once, there was a small crack running down the middle, as if something had tried to break through from the other side. One morning, after another dream, she noticed something odd. A faint smell of lavender lingered in her room, though she hadn’t used any. She checked the windows, the doors, even the closet, but found nothing. That night, she decided to stay awake longer, hoping to catch the dream before it took her. She sat by the window, sipping tea and reading an old book about forgotten places. At 3:07 a.m., she felt a pull, like a current beneath her skin, and suddenly she was standing in the hallway again. This time, the door was open. Inside, the room was empty except for a single chair and a mirror. The mirror showed her reflection, but when she moved, the image didn’t match. Her eyes were too wide, her mouth twisted into a smile she hadn’t made. She reached out, and the glass rippled like water. Then, a voice whispered, “You’re not supposed to be here.” She stumbled back, the door slamming shut behind her. When she woke up, her hands were trembling, and the mirror in her room was fogged over, as if someone had just wiped it. She cleaned it, but the next morning, it was covered again. This time, the words “Come back” were etched in the condensation. Days passed, and the dreams grew more vivid. She saw herself walking through the hallway, passing other doors, each one identical to the first. Some had cracks, others had symbols carved into them. One door had a keyhole shaped like a heart. She tried to open them, but none would budge. The only thing that changed was the mirror. Sometimes it showed her face, sometimes a stranger’s, and once, a child who looked exactly like her. She began to notice changes in her waking life. Her reflection in the mirror sometimes blinked when she didn’t. Her shadow moved without her. Once, she caught a glimpse of herself standing in the doorway of her room, staring at her with an expression she couldn’t place. When she turned around, the room was empty. She started researching dreams and the supernatural, but everything she found felt too familiar. There were stories of people who entered dreams and never returned, of doors that led to places that shouldn’t exist. She found a reference to a “Threshold,” a place between sleep and reality where the mind could wander freely. But no one knew what it truly was. One night, she stood before the door again, this time with a key. She had found it in an old drawer, buried beneath a stack of letters she didn’t recognize. The key fit perfectly into the lock. When she turned it, the door creaked open, revealing a vast, endless library. Shelves stretched into the distance, filled with books that pulsed like living things. The air was cool, and the silence was complete. In the center of the room stood a pedestal, and on top of it was a single book. Its cover was made of black leather, and the title was written in silver ink: *The Dreamer’s Archive.* She opened it, and the pages filled with her own handwriting, describing every dream she had ever had. But some entries were written in a different hand, ones she didn’t recognize. They told of other dreamers, people who had walked through the same halls, seen the same doors, and never come back. As she closed the book, the library began to fade. The shelves dissolved into darkness, and the door slammed shut behind her. She woke up gasping, the key still in her hand. The mirror now showed her standing in the doorway, watching her. She hasn’t gone to sleep since. Every night, she stares at the ceiling, waiting for the pull, for the whisper, for the door. But the dreams have stopped. Or maybe they’ve just changed. Maybe the real question is, which world is the dream?