Every night, Clara dreamed of the same place. A quiet town with cobblestone streets and gas lamps that flickered like tired eyes. The buildings were old, their facades weathered by time, but not broken. The air smelled of rain and damp earth, and the silence was so thick it felt like a living thing. She never saw anyone else in her dreams, only shadows moving at the edges of her vision, always just out of reach. At first, she thought it was a recurring dream, something normal. But the details were too precise—too real. She could feel the texture of the stones under her feet, hear the soft creak of wooden shutters in the wind. When she woke up, she would remember every detail: the way the moon hung low over the rooftops, the sound of a distant church bell, the faint scent of lavender in the air. One morning, she found a small, weathered key in her drawer. It was cold to the touch, its surface etched with strange symbols that looked like they had been carved by someone who didn’t know how to write. She didn’t remember putting it there, and when she asked her roommate, she got a blank stare. “You’ve been acting weird lately,” her roommate said. “Maybe you’re sleepwalking again.” Clara didn’t sleepwalk. She wasn’t even sure if she was dreaming anymore. The town in her dreams began to change. Some nights, the streets were empty. Other nights, the buildings were gone, replaced by a vast field of tall grass swaying in an unseen wind. Sometimes, she would find herself standing in front of a door she had never seen before, its handle rusted and heavy. She would reach for it, but her hand would stop mid-motion, as if something—or someone—was holding her back. She started keeping a journal, writing down every detail of her dreams. The entries grew longer, more frantic. She wrote about the key, the town, the feeling of being watched. One night, she found a message written in her own handwriting on the back of a page: *Don’t open it.* She had no memory of writing it, and the ink was still wet. The next time she dreamed, the town was different. The buildings were taller, the streets wider. There was a clock tower in the center, its hands frozen at 3:07. She walked toward it, drawn by an invisible force. As she approached, she saw a figure standing beneath the clock. It was a woman, dressed in a long, dark coat, her face hidden behind a veil of mist. “Why do you come here?” the woman asked, her voice echoing like wind through hollow bones. “I don’t know,” Clara whispered. “I keep dreaming about this place.” The woman stepped forward, and the mist around her parted just enough for Clara to see her face. It was her own face, but older, worn, and filled with sorrow. “You are not the first,” the woman said. “And you will not be the last.” “What is this place?” Clara asked. “It is a place between dreams and waking,” the woman replied. “A place where memories go to rest. But some are not meant to be forgotten.” Clara’s heart pounded. “What do you mean?” The woman raised a hand, and the world around them shifted. The town dissolved into a blur of colors and shapes, and Clara felt herself falling. She woke up in her bed, drenched in sweat, the key still in her hand. That night, she dreamt of the door again. This time, the key fit perfectly in the lock. Her fingers trembled as she turned it. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room filled with mirrors. Each one reflected a different version of herself—some young, some old, some smiling, others crying. In the center of the room stood a mirror that showed nothing but blackness. As she stepped closer, the darkness rippled, and a voice whispered from within: *You are not the first. You will not be the last.* She tried to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. The mirrors began to hum, and the air grew heavy, pressing against her chest. She reached out, trying to touch the blackness, but her hand passed through it like smoke. When she woke up, she was alone. The key was gone, and the journal was empty. She couldn’t remember writing anything. But deep in her mind, a question lingered: *Was she still dreaming?*