Ch25: Deeper
1012 Words
The grey city held.
Sari felt it as soon as she arrived—the air was still, the buildings steady, the light unchanging. No flicker at the edges. No sense that the dream might shatter at any moment. It was solid. Real. As real as any place she had ever stood.
He was there, waiting in the middle of the street.
She walked toward him. The distance shrank, and when she stopped, she was close enough to see the texture of his coat—wool, dark, the collar turned up against the cold.
"Tonight feels different," she said.
"It does."
"Longer."
"Maybe." He paused. "Or maybe we're just better at staying."
She didn't know what that meant, but she nodded anyway.
He turned and started walking. She followed.
They moved through the grey city together, side by side, their steps silent on the pavement. The buildings rose on either side of them, dark-windowed and indifferent. The sky stretched above, pale and endless.
She had never walked with him before. Not like this. Not with purpose. He seemed to know where he was going—not because he had a destination, but because he had decided that forward was better than standing still.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Nowhere."
"Then why are we walking?"
He glanced at her—or she thought he did. His face was still shadowed, but she felt his attention shift.
"Because we can," he said.
She understood.
In the earlier dreams, movement had been difficult. The distance had stretched when she tried to close it. The streets had twisted when she tried to follow them. But tonight, the city was letting them move.
They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
She noticed things she hadn't seen before. A bench against a wall. A door with no handle. A window that reflected nothing but grey. The city was empty—no people, no cars, no signs of life—but it wasn't hostile. It was just waiting. Watching. Letting them pass.
The street narrowed. The buildings pressed closer. Soon they were walking through a corridor of grey stone, the walls rough and old, the air colder than before.
She shivered.
He noticed. "Are you cold?"
"A little."
He slowed his pace. "We can stop."
"No. Keep going."
They walked deeper into the narrow passage. The walls rose high above them, blocking out the pale sky. The only light came from somewhere ahead—a soft glow, diffuse and distant.
Her hand swung at her side. His hand swung at his.
They were close. Closer than before.
The passage opened into a small courtyard. Grey stones underfoot. Grey walls all around. A single bench in the center, facing nothing.
He stopped. She stopped beside him.
"This is new," he said.
"I've never been here."
"Neither have I."
They stood in the courtyard, side by side, looking at the bench and the walls and the soft glow that came from nowhere.
She turned to look at him.
His face was still shadowed. But she could see the line of his jaw more clearly now—sharp, strong, the skin pale against the dark of his collar. And his hands. She could see his hands hanging at his sides, long fingers relaxed.
She wanted to reach out. She didn't know why. Just to know if he was solid. Just to know if the dream would let her touch him.
He turned to look at her.
"**?" she asked—the word came out without thinking, English blurring into the dream's strange language.
"Nothing," he said. "You just looked like you wanted to say something."
She shook her head. "I was thinking."
"About?"
"About whether I could touch you."
The words hung in the air between them.
He didn't move away. He didn't speak.
She raised her hand.
Slowly. Carefully. As if any sudden movement might shatter the dream.
His hand was there. Hanging at his side. Close enough.
Her fingers brushed his sleeve.
Wool. Coarse. Warm from his body heat.
The contact lasted less than a second. A brush. A whisper. The barest touch of fabric against skin.
She pulled her hand back.
He looked down at his sleeve, then at her.
"Why did you do that?" he asked.
"To see if you were real."
"Am I?"
She looked at her hand—the fingers that had touched him, still tingling with the sensation of wool and warmth and something she couldn't name.
"I don't know," she said. "But you felt real."
He raised his own hand. Slowly, the way she had. He reached toward her.
His fingers stopped just before touching her arm. Not pulling away. Just—waiting.
"Can I?" he asked.
She nodded.
His fingers touched her sleeve.
The contact was light, tentative, barely there. But she felt it—the pressure of his fingertips through the fabric, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his attention.
Her breath caught.
He pulled his hand back.
"You're real too," he said.
The dream held. The courtyard stayed. The light glowed soft and distant.
They stood there, side by side, not touching, but closer than they had ever been.
The grey city waited.
And for once, it didn't try to pull them apart.
---
Sari woke with her hand pressed to her sleeve, exactly where his fingers had touched.
The room was dark. The fan spun. The rain had started again, soft and steady.
She lay still, her fingers pressed against the fabric, trying to remember the weight of his touch.
*He touched me. I touched him.*
She reached for her notebook.
*Tonight we walked through the city together. The dream held. It didn't break.*
*We touched. His sleeve. My sleeve. Barely anything. Fabric against fabric.*
*But I felt it.*
*He felt real.*
She set down the pen and closed her eyes.
The grey city was gone.
But the warmth of his fingers stayed on her arm, phantom and persistent, like a promise the dream had made and intended to keep.
- Writer
