The Book Of Misfits

(4) The Dream Weaver

The night Ella disappeared was nothing more than ordinary. Amber hues of the setting sun had bathed the Dream Shop in a warm, golden glow as darkness crept in. An air of stillness lingered in the once-bustling space as the daytime fuss dwindled. Customers, those seekers of dreams, began to retreat, their hearts brimming with anticipation, and their hands clasping vials of ethereal enchantment.

The business of dreams had never been grander. Dream Seekers from far and wide sought Ella, the Dream Weaver, chasing the high of fulfilled visions and unrestrained possibilities. She simply made dreams vivid, breathing life into people's minds' eyes. She had artfully transported men and women, children and crones into crafted alternate realities. The worlds Ella weaved wore off with every sunrise, yet her magic kept seekers coming again and again as she turned their wishes into attainable realities and tangible profits.

Shadows danced upon the walls, casting a whimsical veil over the alluring shelves where the mystical vials shone in glory. Murmurs hung in the air, mingling with the whispers of fantasies yet untouched. Amidst this scene, Ella stood with an air of cold aloofness, her gaze flitting across the room. Her porcelain skin held an outstanding glow, accentuated by cascading locks of hair that framed her face like a midnight waterfall. Her eyes, once filled with wonder, now carried a distant yearning. Beneath that mask of indifference, there was hidden warmth-a captivating smile that rarely graced her lips-and depths of emotions buried far away.

The last seeker of the day was heading out, an elderly lady whose face etched with a peculiar hollowness. She shuffled about with weary steps, her eyes ogling the vial in her palm. They all had that look-one of despair and hunger for serenity.

As the lady departed, Ella moved with quiet grace towards a hidden corner of the shop. There, concealed from prying eyes, lay a small compartment where she stashed away a treasure reserved solely for herself. Nestled inside was a singular dream she had carefully safeguarded, a permanent dream, one that would be her salvation.

With delicate hands, she retrieved the vial, the glass glistening like liquid moonlight. Uncorking its fragile seal, a soft sigh escaped her lips as the tendrils she crafted wafted through the air, carrying the promise of solace and liberation in their wake. In that moment, the dream weaver surrendered herself to the eternal embrace of her only dream.

And there, transported beyond the boundaries of time and space, away from the confines of reality, she found her sacred haven. Seated on a weathered bench facing a vast expanse of crashing waves, she witnessed the sky stretched overhead, a canvas of cerulean blue adorned with scattered brushstrokes of white. The gentle breeze played with her hair, tenderly whispering through her strands. Her bare feet caressed the golden sand as sunlight danced upon her face, illuminating her features with a soft radiance.

In this precious realm, there was no place for dread, no tormenting thoughts, and no weight of disappointments or remorse. No more dreams to weave, no currency to chase. No more darkness. Instead, Ella was young and free, basking in this infinite spiral of beauty and solace. To the outside world, she had been lost forever, and yet, it seemed like a fair price to pay.