Every night, the dreams came. Not in a pattern, not in a sequence, but always with the same quiet insistence. They began with a soft hum, like the distant echo of a lullaby sung by someone who had forgotten how to speak. At first, Elise thought it was just her imagination, the kind of noise that crept into your mind when you were half-awake. But soon, the dreams grew more vivid, more persistent. She would wake up drenched in sweat, her fingers curled as if gripping something invisible. The air in her room felt heavier, as though it had been holding its breath for too long. She started keeping a journal, scribbling down fragments of what she remembered—shadows moving in the corners of her vision, whispers that didn’t quite make sense, and a recurring image of a door she couldn’t open. One morning, after another sleepless night, Elise found a small, silver key under her pillow. It was cold to the touch, etched with strange symbols that seemed to shift when she looked away. She didn’t remember putting it there. When she tried to fit it into the lock of her bedroom door, it wouldn’t turn. The door itself was normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, every time she closed her eyes, the dream returned. In the dream, she stood in a hallway that stretched endlessly in both directions. The walls were made of old wood, warped and splintered, and the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. The air smelled of damp earth and rust. At the end of the hall, there was a single door, identical to the one in her room. But this one wasn’t locked. It was waiting. Elise reached out, and the door opened without a sound. Inside was a room that didn’t belong to any world she knew. The ceiling was high, painted with constellations that moved slowly, as if breathing. The furniture was ancient, yet untouched by time. A mirror stood in the corner, its frame covered in ivy. When she looked into it, her reflection smiled back at her—but it wasn’t her. It was someone else, someone she had never met. The next night, the dream changed. Instead of the hallway, she was standing in a field of white flowers, their petals glowing faintly in the dark. A figure approached her, cloaked in a long, flowing garment that shimmered like moonlight on water. The figure spoke, but the words didn’t come from a mouth. They echoed inside her head, slow and deliberate. "You are not meant to be here," the voice said. "But you have chosen to stay." Elise woke up gasping, her heart pounding. She searched the room for the key, but it was gone. That night, she dreamed again, and this time, the door in her room opened on its own. She stepped through, and the world shifted around her. The hallway appeared once more, but now the walls were different—covered in mirrors, each reflecting a different version of herself. Some were younger, some older, some unrecognizable. One of them was crying. She turned back, but the door behind her was gone. The hallway stretched infinitely in all directions, and the air was thick with silence. She walked forward, unsure of where she was going, but compelled to keep moving. The lights flickered, and shadows danced along the walls, whispering secrets she could almost understand. When she finally reached the end of the hallway, she found a new door. This one was slightly ajar, as if waiting for her. She pushed it open, and the room beyond was empty—except for a single chair and a small table with a candle burning in the center. On the table was a note, written in her own handwriting: "Find the door that leads home." Elise sat down, the candle casting long shadows across the walls. She didn’t know if she was dreaming or awake, but something told her this was the last step. As the flame flickered, she heard a soft knock at the door. Her breath caught in her throat. She rose slowly, approaching the door with a mix of fear and hope. She opened it. There was no one there. Only a narrow corridor, leading to a door that looked exactly like the one in her room. She stepped through, and everything faded to black. When she woke up, it was morning. The room was quiet, the sun streaming through the window. The key was back under her pillow, and the dream was gone. But something had changed. She felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. And in the back of her mind, a question lingered: Was she ever really asleep? Or had she simply forgotten what it meant to be awake?