Library - Dream
As for the dream...
It began in a place that wasn't quite the prison and wasn't quite outside. Imagine one of those old libraries where the shelves are taller than trees, except every book was made of wood instead of paper, as though someone had carved entire stories into them.
You were walking ahead of me carrying two coffees and I remember thinking, She's going to spill those.
You didn't.
Instead, you stopped in front of a narrow door hidden between two shelves.
"You've never opened this one?" you asked.
"I've seen it."
"So why not?"
"Because not every closed door wants to be opened."
You gave me that little smile that means you've already decided my opinion is merely decorative.
You turned the handle.
Behind it wasn't another room.
It was morning.
Just... morning. Cool air. Wet grass. Birds making far too much noise for my liking. No walls. No fences. The kind of sunrise people usually ignore because they're too busy getting somewhere.
You stepped through without hesitation.
I stayed where I was.
You looked back.
"Aren't you coming?"
I answered before I even thought about it.
"I don't know how."
There wasn't fear in it. Just fact. Fifteen years teaches your mind strange geometry. Sometimes the cage remains even when the bars don't.
You walked back, took one of the coffees from my hands — apparently I'd somehow acquired one by then — and simply stood beside me.
No speeches.
No encouragement.
Just silence.
Oddly enough... that was the part that made the dream peaceful.
Then the morning bell dragged me back to concrete.