Whispers Between Worlds

Chapter 7: The Dream thief’s Riddle

The path that wound beyond the Keeper’s arch twisted like a living memory—changing with Ava’s thoughts, shifting with her fears. Elion no longer walked beside her. His guidance was finished—for now. This next part she had to do alone.

She entered a forest veiled in silver mist. The trees here were tall and gnarled, their leaves whispering in languages she almost understood. Every now and then, she caught glimpses of her own dreams flitting between branches—childhood wishes, lost ambitions, the face of her mother smiling from a place no longer reachable.

Ava pressed forward until the mist thickened into a wall, and from it emerged a creature.

Tall and cloaked in shadow, it had no face, only a porcelain mask with an ever-shifting expression—sadness, curiosity, anger, delight. Its voice was neither male nor female, neither young nor old.

“You come seeking what was never yours to keep,” it said.

“I come to reclaim what was taken from me,” Ava replied, her voice steady though her chest pounded.

“Then you must answer,” the figure said. “For I am the Dreamthief, guardian of the Unwoven. Speak true, or remain lost.”

It stepped aside, revealing three glowing doorways—one made of bone-white marble, one of glimmering water, and one of scorched black stone.

“Choose,” the Dream thief said. “But first—my riddle.”

Ava held her breath.

“I am what you see but never touch,

I live in minds yet fade too much.

Born when belief and silence kiss,

I vanish with a waking wish.

What am I?”

Ava blinked. The answer came not from logic, but from memory.

“A dream,” she whispered.

The Dreamthief paused, the mask freezing in a look of calm.

“Correct. But now, the harder truth—why do you dream?”

Ava faltered. The question burned deeper than she expected.

“To remember what’s possible,” she said finally. “To hold onto the version of me that believes in more.”

The Dreamthief bowed its head. “Then enter the doorway of water, and face your reflection. Only by passing through what you fear most can you reweave what was taken.”

Ava stepped forward and entered.

The water parted like silk, and she fell—not downward, but inward.

She landed in her childhood bedroom.

Everything was perfect, preserved, untouched. Her mother’s perfume hung in the air. A soft hum of a lullaby played in the background.

And there, on the bed, sat a version of herself—young, wide-eyed, full of wonder.

“You left me,” the child whispered.

Ava knelt. “I had to. The world made me forget.”

“But you promised we’d never stop believing,” the child said.

Tears streamed down Ava’s cheeks. “I’m here now. I came back for you.”

The child smiled and placed a glowing

orb into Ava’s hands. “Then take this—our first thread.”

Ava rose, and the room dissolved.

She was back in the mist, the orb still glowing in her palms.

The Dream thief was gone.

Only the path ahead remained—brighter now, beckoning.