Chapter 15 – The Willow Dream
829 Words
The night was too still to be real. The forest slept under a shroud of silver mist, the air humming faintly with the echoes of forgotten prayers. Elias lay beside the dying embers of his campfire, the ache of travel deep in his bones. His cloak was damp with dew, his mind drifting somewhere between wakefulness and dream.
Above him, the branches of a weeping willow swayed without wind—its tendrils moving as though alive, caressing the moonlight. The sound of water came from somewhere unseen, gentle and unending, like breath.
And then, he heard her voice.
“Elias…”
It was not loud, not even a whisper—just his name, spoken the way one might speak a memory. He stirred, the name echoing in the hollow chambers of his chest. The fire cracked softly, and when he opened his eyes, the world had changed.
The forest was gone.
He stood in a meadow bathed in twilight, the air thick with the scent of lilies and rain. The willow tree rose at the center—ancient, luminous, its silver leaves glinting like tears. Beneath it stood Mira, her hair a cascade of shadow, her gown flowing as though made of mist. She looked younger here, untouched by sorrow, her eyes no longer cold but shimmering with life.
“Mira…” he breathed.
She smiled faintly. “So you do remember my name.”
He took a cautious step forward. “This isn’t real, is it?”
Her laughter was soft, bittersweet. “No. But neither is forgetting.”
The willow branches swayed overhead, each movement rippling through the dream like water disturbed. She stepped closer, the hem of her gown brushing the grass, and the air seemed to tremble around her.
“Why do you call to me?” Elias asked, his voice breaking the stillness.
“Because I cannot stop dreaming of you,” she said simply. “Even when I am awake.”
Her words struck something deep within him, a pain that was not entirely his own. He remembered her tears in the clearing, the way her magic had burned through him when he tried to save her. He had thought her freed, but perhaps curses linger, even after redemption.
“You should not be here,” she whispered, stepping closer still. “The dream takes what it touches. You might never wake.”
“Then let it take me,” he said. “At least I’d be near you.”
Her eyes glistened. “Foolish hunter. You were always too willing to bleed.”
The willow’s branches bent low, encircling them both. The air shimmered with pale light, and Elias felt warmth against his skin—a memory, a heartbeat, her hand brushing his cheek.
“I remember this,” he murmured. “The night I found you crying beneath the stars.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling. “You offered me hope when I had none. But hope, Elias, is a cruel gift. It doesn’t let you rest.”
Her hand fell away, and shadows rippled beneath her eyes. The willow leaves began to fall, one by one, each turning to silver dust before touching the ground.
“Mira… what do you want me to do?”
“Remember me kindly,” she said. “Even if I fade.”
He reached for her, but she stepped back, the distance between them filling with cold light.
“No,” he said, his voice cracking. “I won’t let you vanish. Not again.”
“You cannot hold onto a dream, Elias. You never could.”
The wind rose suddenly, carrying with it whispers of grief—thousands of voices, weeping and pleading. The willow shuddered, its roots twisting like veins in the earth. Elias fell to his knees as the world fractured, and for a moment, he saw her as she truly was: the witch bound in sorrow, her soul flickering like a dying flame.
She reached out once more. Her fingers brushed his temple.
“Wake up,” she whispered. “Before you drown.”
The dream collapsed.
Elias gasped, eyes snapping open. Dawn had come, pale and cold. The fire was ash. The willow above him stood silent and bare, its branches unmoving. Yet the scent of lilies still lingered in the air, faint but real.
He touched his cheek. A tear—hers, or his—had dried there.
He rose slowly, heart pounding, the echo of her voice clinging to him like mist.
“Elias…”
He looked to the horizon, where the forest ended and the mountains began. Somewhere beyond that ridge, Mira waited—awake, dreaming, or both.
He saddled his horse with shaking hands. The willow’s shadow stretched long across the ground, pointing north.
And though the sun rose bright and golden, Elias felt as though he were still walking through a dream—one he could no longer wake from.
- Writer
