Demha was in his mid-twenties, a final-year college student. He wasn't particularly remarkable at anything—except when it came to dreaming.
That strange borderland where
reality melted and the mind wandered free.
Since his teenage years, he had trained himself to recognize when he was dreaming.
Lucid dreams, they called it.
An art of touching the unreal, shaping it, making it your playground.
He was able to change it a little, but still — he had a lot of fun.
It was his escape from the world. A touch of real freedom, they say.
—
That night, he went to sleep as usual, after a normal day of college, work, family, and all those classy things from the ordinary life of everyone.
He remembered lying in bed, the soft hum of the fan spinning lazily overhead.
The warmth of the summer night pressing against his skin.
He remembered the weightlessness taking over — the familiar drift into darkness.
And then—
A sound.
A distant clatter, like a metal can rolling against stone.
Demha opened his eyes.
The world around him was not his room.
He stood in a narrow alley, walls towering around him, built from dark brown bricks worn by countless years.
Dim lamps, hanging from iron hooks, cast a tired orange glow over uneven cobblestones.
A moist scent hung heavy in the air — a mixture of rain, old wood, and something unfamiliar. Something wild.
For a few moments, he just stood there, blinking.
I can't remember the last time I dreamed with this much detail… and logic?
Demha was kind of experienced in dreams — it had been his hobby for years. But most dreams were fast, illogical, and rarely this vivid.
He inhaled slowly, testing the air, the texture of it.
Oddly… it felt thicker. More solid than usual.
Dreams often blurred at the edges — flickered if he pushed too hard.
Here, everything stayed stubbornly real.
—
The whispers came next.
Soft, cautious murmurs floated from the street ahead.
Demha moved carefully toward the noise.
As he turned a corner, the alley opened into a small square bustling with figures.
Dozens of people — no, beings — moved around.
At first glance, they looked human, dressed in simple but colorful clothes.
Jackets with metal buttons. Boots that clinked lightly on the stone.
But then Demha noticed it —
The long, furred ears twitching slightly on one woman's head.
The golden, slitted eyes of a man haggling at a fruit stand.
A tail, thin and twitching, curling around a little girl's ankle as she laughed.
Demha was surprised — but underneath, mostly excited.
"Is this some kind of anime world…? Did I get hit by van-chan?" he mumbled to himself.
"If this is real, I won't complain, to be honest."
Then he remembered — sadly — I brushed my teeth and went to bed, so maybe next time.
But still…
Elves? Animal hybrids?
What kind of dream is this?
He started walking around a little. Nobody paid him much attention.
A few people — creatures — gave him sidelong glances, whispering behind their hands.
Not fearful. Not hostile.
Curious, maybe.
They must think I'm just another dream oddity, Demha thought, smiling to himself.
He walked slowly through the square, passing a stall selling fruits he didn't recognize — glistening in colors he wasn't sure even existed.
A man leaned against a lamppost, playing a flute that sounded like water running over pebbles.
It was beautiful.
Strange.
Alive.
Demha felt a bubble of excitement growing inside him.
Even if he couldn't control this dream — it was amazing.
He wanted to explore. See everything.
—
That's when it happened.
A sharp sting on his left forearm.
"Ah—!"
He slapped his arm instinctively.
A small, mosquito-like insect fluttered weakly in his hand — larger than any bug he'd seen before. Its wings shimmered violet under the lamplight.
He crushed it without much thought.
His skin itched fiercely.
Already, a red welt was rising where it had bitten him.
Demha frowned.
That… felt real.
Before he could think much more, the world around him began to blur at the edges — like wet paint dripping downward.
A familiar pull on his mind.
Sleep inside the dream.
And then —
Darkness.
⸻
Demha woke up with a jolt.
The ceiling fan spun above him.
The soft glow of the city lights filtered through the window.
For a moment, he lay there, heartbeat loud in his ears, clutching the bedsheet.
It was just a dream.
Right?
He sat up, stretching with a groan — and froze.
There, on his left forearm, was an angry, swollen red bite.
Exactly where the insect had stung him.
Demha stared at it in silence.
A prickling sensation crept along his spine.
Not fear.
Not yet.
More like… curiosity.
A dream leaving marks in reality?
He laughed nervously to himself, shaking his head.
"Maybe a real mosquito bit me while I was asleep," he mumbled.
He stood up, shrugged, and went about his day.
But deep inside, a small seed of doubt —
or maybe excitement —
was planted.
And it was only the beginning.
⸻
End of Chapter 1