MORE THAN A DREAM
1074 Words
The hug lasts longer than either of us expects.
For a moment, it feels like some of the weight we've both been carrying has finally lifted.
Bingo wedges himself between us, his tail wagging wildly as if he's decided the sad part of the night is officially over. Dad laughs and scratches behind the dog's ears.
"See?" Dad says. "Your mother was right. He really does run this family."
I laugh.
"He's definitely convinced he does."
Bingo barks once as if agreeing.
For the first time in months, the house doesn't feel so quiet.
It doesn't feel completely empty.
It still hurts that Mom is gone. I don't think that feeling will ever fully disappear. But somehow, after reading her letter, it feels different. Not easier exactly. Just... lighter.
Like she hasn't completely left us.
Like a piece of her is still here.
Dad carefully folds the letter and places it back inside the photo album.
"We should keep this safe," he says.
I nod.
"Yeah."
We sit there for another few minutes talking about Mom.
The time she accidentally burned Thanksgiving dinner.
The time she convinced Dad to dance in public.
The time she let Bingo sleep in their bed and Dad ended up sleeping on the couch because the dog refused to move.
Every memory makes us smile.
Eventually Dad glances at the clock.
"Well, it's almost three in the morning."
I look at the time and groan.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
I stand up from the table.
Oddly enough, I feel better.
Not perfect.
Not magically cured of sadness.
But better.
The nightmare from earlier doesn't seem quite as terrifying anymore.
Dad notices me stretching.
"You look more awake now than when you came downstairs."
"I actually feel better."
"I'm glad."
I start walking toward the stairs.
Before I can leave, Dad points at me.
"Hold on."
"What?"
"When you get upstairs, clean that disaster you call a bedroom."
I stare at him.
"My room isn't that bad."
"Dennis."
"Okay, maybe it's a little bad."
"A little bad?" Dad laughs. "I couldn't even see your floor the last time I walked in there."
"That's because I have a very advanced filing system."
Dad raises an eyebrow.
"You mean throwing everything on the floor?"
"Exactly."
He shakes his head.
"Clean it."
"Fine."
"And while you're at it, take a bath."
"Dad..."
"A proper bath."
"I'm not five."
"And brush your teeth."
"Dad!"
"You heard me."
I groan dramatically.
"Mom's gone and somehow you've become twice as annoying."
Dad points toward the stairs.
"Bathroom. Bedroom. Now."
I laugh and start heading upstairs.
"Yes, sir."
As I reach the top step, I hear him call out one more thing.
"And use soap!"
"I ALWAYS USE SOAP!"
"That's exactly what someone who doesn't use soap would say!"
I can't help laughing.
The sound follows me all the way to my room.
When I open my bedroom door, Dad wasn't exaggerating.
The place is a mess.
Clothes cover half the floor.
Books are stacked everywhere.
School papers are scattered across my desk.
A lonely sock hangs from my lamp for reasons I honestly can't explain.
"Wow," I mutter.
"This is bad."
I spend the next twenty minutes cleaning.
Clothes go into the laundry basket.
Books return to the shelves.
Papers get organized.
Trash goes into the bin.
By the time I'm finished, I can actually see my carpet again.
It feels surprisingly satisfying.
Next comes the bath.
The hot water helps clear my head.
As I stand under the stream, my thoughts drift back to the dream.
The strange beach.
The storm.
Leviathan.
Lora glowing with that golden light.
And Loki's voice warning me to go back.
A shiver runs through me despite the warm water.
Something about the dream felt important.
Not just random.
Not just my imagination.
Almost like a memory.
Or a warning.
After brushing my teeth and changing into clean clothes, I return to my room.
The clock reads 3:38 AM.
Most people would probably go back to sleep.
But I can't.
The dream keeps replaying in my head.
Finally, I grab my phone.
I hesitate for a second.
Then I call Lora.
To my surprise, she answers after only a few rings.
"Dennis?" she says sleepily.
"Please tell me you're not calling because you forgot the homework."
I laugh.
"No."
"Then why are you calling me at almost four in the morning?"
"I had a dream."
There's a pause.
"A dream?"
"Yeah."
Another pause.
"Dennis, if this is about the time you dreamed your math teacher became a pirate, I'm hanging up."
"This is different."
The joking leaves my voice.
Immediately, she notices.
"Dennis?"
I sit down on the edge of my bed.
"I saw Leviathan."
Silence.
"I saw him rising from the sea."
I begin telling her everything.
The strange beach.
The whirlpool.
The storm.
Loki warning me to turn back.
The giant sea monster emerging from the water.
And finally, her glowing brighter than the sun itself.
When I finish, neither of us speaks for several seconds.
"That's... weird," Lora finally says.
"Really weird."
"I know."
I stare out my bedroom window.
"The thing is, Lora... it felt real."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean it didn't feel like a dream."
I struggle to explain it.
"It felt like I was actually there."
Lora stays quiet.
"I can't stop thinking about it," I continue. "And I know this sounds crazy, but I feel connected to that sea monster somehow."
"Connected?"
"Not in a bad way."
I shake my head.
"I don't know how to explain it."
I look up at the moon outside.
"It's like every time someone mentions Leviathan, something inside me pays attention."
"That's creepy."
"Very creepy."
She laughs softly.
Then I become serious again.
"And another thing."
"What?"
"Our class project."
"The Leviathan project?"
"Yeah."
I take a deep breath.
"I don't think it's just homework anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know exactly."
And that was the truth.
I really didn't know.
But deep down, something felt different.
Like all of this was connected.
The scroll.
The dream.
Leviathan.
Lora.
Everything.
"I think we're part of something bigger than we realize," I say quietly.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
For once, Lora doesn't laugh.
For once, neither of us has a joke.
Because somehow, in the middle of the night, those words feel true.
And neither of us can explain why.
- Writer
