I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, gripped by a fierce thirst I couldn't ignore. I quietly rose from my bed and stepped out of the room in search of the innkeeper.
I found her fast asleep in her chair, breathing softly. I hesitated, not wanting to wake her. But as I drew near, her eyes gently opened. I whispered apologetically:
"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour."
She smiled at me kindly and said:
"It's alright. It's not your fault."
I asked her for some water, and she pointed toward the kitchen tucked in the corner of the inn.
I headed there, finding it dimly lit—only a single flickering candle cast long shadows across the worn-out walls.
I found a cup on a rickety shelf, filled it with water, and drank deeply. Each drop quenched not just my body's thirst, but something deeper… something in my soul.
While I stood there, a quiet curiosity began to stir in me.
"Has the inn always been like this?" I wondered.
"Did it once see better days? Was it once filled with travelers and laughter? Has time changed it this much?"
I returned to the innkeeper and asked her in a calm tone:
"Has the inn always been this way? Do many people still come here?"
She looked at me, her gaze heavy with years and memories. Then she replied softly:
"This place used to be full of life, once upon a time. But time hasn't been kind. These days, people are rare. I do my best to keep it going, even with few visitors."
A hint of sorrow crept into her voice:
"It's been like this for years… as if time itself stopped in this very place."
I felt my heart sink under the weight of her words.
"If only I could help… but I'm not doing much better myself." I thought.
After quenching my thirst, I returned to my room and lay back on the bed. I closed my eyes, my mind swirling with thoughts of tomorrow… and of the uncertain future in this strange world I now called home.
Caught between faint hope… and deep sadness.
And as I drifted into sleep, I suddenly found myself back home.
In my old room, in my family's warm embrace—my bed, my phone, my pen… and the ten-dollar bill always in my hand.
Laughter echoed through the house as my family sat around the dining table, joy and warmth filling every corner.
I was stunned.
"Is this… real? Was everything else just a dream?"
Suddenly, my mother's voice broke through my thoughts, concerned:
"What's wrong? Why do you look so pale?"
My father added with a worried glance:
"Are you feeling sick?"
My sister joked playfully:
"Ignore him—he's probably just pretending to get out of chores."
My brother laughed and said:
"Even if you're sick, you still have to play video games with me!"
Their voices wrapped around me like a familiar blanket.
And yet… I was lost in disbelief.
Everything I had gone through so far had felt more real than anything else.
Then, as always after a meal, my mother said:
"When you're done eating, take out the trash."
But I must have looked truly unwell, because she turned to me and said with concern:
"You really do look sick. No choice then—go lie down. Your little brother will take the trash out this time."
She kissed me gently on the cheek.
And just as I began to feel the warmth of it—just as the joy started to bloom—
I opened my eyes.
A tear clung to my lashes, ready to fall like a rushing stream.
It was all just a dream.
I was still in this strange world…
Alone.