Every night, Clara dreamed of the same place. It was a small village nestled between two hills, where the sky never changed color and the air smelled faintly of burnt sugar. The buildings were old, made of dark wood and stone, and the streets were lined with lanterns that flickered without wind. She would walk through the village, hearing the soft murmur of voices she couldn’t understand, as if they were speaking in a language just beyond her grasp. At first, the dreams felt like memories. She remembered the cobbled paths, the way the trees bent slightly toward the ground, and the sound of a bell that rang only once every hour. But when she woke up, those details blurred, like ink washed away by rain. Only the lingering scent of burnt sugar remained on her pillow. Clara started keeping a journal. She wrote down everything she could remember—what the villagers wore, the shape of the buildings, the way the light seemed to glow from within. She even drew sketches of the places she saw, though they never quite matched what she remembered. One morning, after a particularly vivid dream, she found a small, weathered key under her bed. It was rusted and cold, with an intricate pattern etched into its surface. She didn’t recognize it, but something about it made her feel as though it belonged to her. She began searching for the village. She scoured maps, asked people if they had ever heard of such a place, and even visited nearby towns hoping to find a clue. No one knew of it. The more she searched, the more she felt like she was chasing a ghost. Yet the dreams continued, growing more detailed each night. One evening, she dreamed of a house at the edge of the village. It stood alone, surrounded by tall, gnarled trees that seemed to lean in toward it, as if listening. Inside, the walls were covered in mirrors, and every reflection showed a different version of herself. Some were younger, others older, and some were not human at all. A woman in the dream looked directly at her and whispered, “You are not supposed to be here.” When Clara woke, her hands were trembling. She stared at the key in her palm, then at the journal filled with her notes. Something told her the dream was trying to tell her something important. That night, she decided to follow the dream. She packed a small bag, left a note for her roommate, and took a train to the edge of the country, where the maps ended. There, she found a narrow road leading into the forest. The trees grew denser as she walked, their branches weaving together to form a tunnel of shadows. The air grew colder, and the scent of burnt sugar became stronger. After hours of walking, she reached a clearing. In the center stood a small wooden house, exactly as she had seen in her dreams. The door was locked, but the key fit perfectly. When she turned it, the door creaked open with a sound like a sigh. Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single candle on the table. The floorboards groaned beneath her feet, and the air was thick with dust and memory. On the wall, there was a mirror, but when she looked into it, she saw not her reflection, but the village again—this time, she was standing in the middle of it, watching herself from outside. A voice echoed from somewhere deep in the house. “You’ve come back.” Clara spun around, but no one was there. The candle flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. She stepped closer to the mirror, and this time, she saw the woman from her dream. The woman smiled, and said, “You’ve been here before. You just don’t remember.” The mirror rippled like water, and Clara felt herself being pulled forward. She reached out, and the world around her dissolved. When she opened her eyes, she was back in her own bedroom, the key still in her hand. But something was different. The air smelled of burnt sugar, and the walls of her room felt slightly taller, as if they had grown while she wasn’t looking. That night, she dreamed again—but this time, the village was gone. In its place, she stood in a room filled with mirrors, each showing a different version of herself. And in every reflection, she saw the same question: *Who are you?* She woke with a start, heart pounding. The key was gone, and the journal lay open, its pages filled with words she didn’t remember writing. And somewhere, in the quiet space between dreams, the bell rang once more.