Every night, she began to dream of the same place. A narrow alleyway, flanked by crumbling brick walls that seemed to lean in as if listening. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something sweet, like overripe fruit. The sky above was a deep violet, not from dusk, but from some other time altogether. She never saw the sun or the moon, only the dim glow of flickering streetlamps that cast long, distorted shadows. At first, the dreams were fleeting—just images, like old photographs fading at the edges. But soon, they became more vivid. She could feel the rough texture of the cobblestones beneath her feet, hear the soft rustle of leaves even though there were no trees nearby. In the distance, a child’s laughter echoed, high and clear, then suddenly stopped. She would wake up gasping, her sheets soaked with sweat, the memory of the alleyway clinging to her like a second skin. The next morning, she would try to recall every detail, scribbling them down in a notebook she kept by her bed. But the more she wrote, the more the dreams changed. The alleyways shifted, sometimes leading into forests of twisted trees, or vast empty rooms filled with broken mirrors. Each time, the same thing happened: she would reach for something just out of sight, only to find it gone when she turned around. One evening, she decided to follow the dream. She sat cross-legged on the floor, breathing deeply, focusing on the alleyway until the world around her blurred. When she opened her eyes, she was there again, but this time, the air felt different. It was colder, heavier, as if the very atmosphere resisted her presence. A figure stood at the end of the alley, their face obscured by a hood. They didn’t move, but she could feel them watching. She took a step forward, and the ground beneath her feet shifted, as though the cobblestones had grown soft and pliable. She reached out, but before she could touch the figure, a sound echoed behind her—a whisper, barely audible, yet unmistakable. “Don’t go back.” She spun around, but there was nothing there. The alley was empty. Yet the whisper remained, lingering in her mind like an unfinished thought. She turned back to the figure, now closer, and for the first time, she saw a glimpse of their face: it was her own. She stumbled backward, the dream dissolving around her. She awoke in her bed, heart pounding, but the feeling of the alleyway stayed with her. That night, she tried again. This time, the alley was different—longer, darker, and the whispers grew louder. They weren’t just voices; they were memories, fragments of lives she had never lived, yet somehow knew. She began to notice things in the real world that mirrored the dreams. A crack in the wall that looked exactly like the one in the alley. A song playing on the radio that matched the melody she heard in the dream. Even the way people moved, the way the light fell at certain times of day—it all felt familiar, as if she had walked these streets before. One night, she found herself standing at the edge of the alley, staring into its depths. The figure was there again, waiting. This time, she didn’t run. She stepped forward, and the world around her melted away. She was no longer in her room, no longer in the alley. She was somewhere else entirely. It was a city, but not one she recognized. The buildings were tall and crooked, their windows glowing with an eerie blue light. People moved through the streets, their faces blank, their eyes reflecting the light. She walked among them, unsure if she was being followed or simply part of the scene. Then, she saw a mirror on the side of a building, and in it, she saw herself—but older, wearier, with a look of quiet sorrow in her eyes. She turned around, but the alley was gone. The city stretched endlessly in all directions, and the sky above was the same deep violet as before. She tried to find her way back, but the streets twisted and shifted, leading her deeper into the unknown. When she finally woke up, she couldn’t remember how she had gotten home. Her hands were covered in dust, and her clothes were torn. She looked at the mirror and saw a reflection that wasn’t quite her. It was the same woman from the dream, but with a faint smile that didn’t belong to her. Since then, the dreams have continued, but they no longer feel like dreams. They feel like memories. And every night, she wonders—was she always meant to be here? Or is she still dreaming, and the real world is just another illusion?