I had never experienced this with a stranger before—my life revolved around objects that whispered their stories when touched and trusted me with their truths. People were trickier—their stories messy, often layered in lies. Which was why I conducted every interaction behind a mask…but it had been left behind in the waking world, leaving me vulnerable.
He blinked at me, seeming just as startled by my presence as I was by his. “What are you doing in my garden?” His voice was hoarse, like it hadn’t been used in some time, yet it still sparked something in me, as though hearing a voice from an old friend I hadn’t seen in years.
I frowned. “Yourgarden? Can you truly make such a claim in someone else’s dream?” For that was the most plausible conclusion for my current location.
He tilted his head, brow furrowed, as though trying to place a half-remembered name. “A…dream?”
My previous uncertainty returned. “Isn’t this a dream?”
“I…don’t think so.” But his gaze swept the garden, lingering on every curling vine and shadow-touched rose, as though searching for evidence to prove or disprove reality.
I found myself doing the same. The scent of roses filling the air seemed almost too strong and sweet to have been invented by my imagination. The scenery remained a surreal kaleidoscope of color and shape, with enough realism to feel like an extension of the real world.
This was proving to be quite a strange dream, unlike any I’d ever experienced before. Mine were often fragmented reenactments of grand heists or thrilling chases, adventures beyond the constraints of the waking world. Never had I been confined to a single setting with the presence of anyone else.
It seemed silly to be having such a conversation with a man who would vanish the moment I woke up; it wasn’t as though he was real. Yet in this suspended moment between sleep and the waking world, hefeltreal, and as usual my curiosity led me to seek answers to the mystery.
My attention returned to my companion. Up close, he seemed sharper than everything else in the garden, as if the rest of this surreal place had been painted in watercolor and he alone had been inked in pen…the first instance that made me question whether I was truly the one dreaming.
Something about him contained an air of familiarity, like an object I’d once held and studied until it whispered its story.
“Have…we met before?” The words stirred the edge of a memory just out of reach. I pushed past the fog obscuring its details…and then I remembered. “I followed you last night through a dream-like labyrinth of shadows. You kept walking away, almost as if you didn’t want to be found.” It seemed like there was more to the story, but at the moment I wasn’t sure what.
I half-expected the reminder to cause him to turn and once more vanish in the surrounding mist. But though I was certain he was the same man who’d been woven through the strange visions that had kept me awake, not a hint of recognition flickered in his grey eyes.
“My apologies, I don’t remember that.”
How could that be? I studied his perplexed expression for any falter, but he didn’t appear to be lying. Perhaps in the haze that had surrounded last night’s vision, I had forgotten detailsabout the man I’d followed. Not that it mattered—one dream boy was interchangeable with any other—yet it felt strangely important considering I rarely dreamt of anyone at all, let alone someone I didn’t know…but felt like I should.
His quiet question tugged my thoughts back to the unfolding conversation. “What are you doing here?”
I lifted my chin in defiance. “There are no limits to where I can venture in my own dream.”
He raised his hands in quick concession. “Forgive me, the question wasn’t meant as an accusation; I’m just…curious how you got inside.”
I glanced around again, only now noticing that the garden encompassed nothing more than brambles and roses in various stages of bloom, the hedges enclosing us absent of a gate.
I folded my arms loosely across my chest, as if the gesture could shield the sudden anxious pulse of my heart. “I’d planned on spending my night locked in a tower; a garden stroll wasn’t on my itinerary.”
His eyes bulged as the full meaning of my words settled. “Pardon,locked in a tower?”
I shrugged. “It’s become a bit of a hobby, though in this instance, my usual knack for picking locks didn’t do much good.”
He stared at me like I was a riddle in human form. For a long moment, he said nothing, as if flipping through some mental dictionary in search of a socially acceptable response to the woman who’d suddenly appeared in this dream landscape…and coming up blank.
He finally found his voice. “You speak of towers and lockpicks as if it’s everyday conversation.”
I arched a brow. “Doesn’t everyone break out of towers in their dreams?”
He crossed his arms, gaze flicking over me like he couldn’t quite decide whether to be amused or alarmed. “I’m still notconvinced this is truly a dream. But if it were, I don’t usually dream about intruders with a flair for dramatics.”
“Then it’s your lucky night.”
He slowly looked around the garden once more, as if seeking details to confirm this new understanding. A breeze stirred through the brambles, causing the roses to sway faintly. A scatter of petals drifted from a vine overhead, though I hadn’t felt any wind, moving only by the surreal logic woven through every dreamy landscape.
The sharpness in his eyes softened, replaced by the first flicker of uncertainty. “If Iamasleep, then you’re not quite the damsel I imagined might stumble into my dream.”
“That’s because I don’t stumble; Isneak.”
