The waiting room dissolves beneath the weight of sleep, folding away like a fragile curtain in a gentle breeze.
The air in the dream is different—thin and crisp, carrying the faint sweetness of pine and salt.
I stand on the porch of a small cottage, the rough wood warm beneath my bare feet from the morning sun.
The cottage rests high on a sloping hill, its whitewashed walls softened by years of weather and sun.
Beyond, the sea glitters in the distance—an endless stretch of blue so deep and vast it feels like it could swallow me whole.
The water moves with an unhurried grace, curling and folding against jagged cliffs as if it has always been here, and will always be.
Somewhere behind me, laughter spills from inside the cottage—light, unforced, belonging to people I should know.
My hands grip the railing, rough and splintered beneath my fingers, and I glance back through the open doorway.
A woman leans over a small wooden table, her hair catching the sunlight like threads of gold.
She says something—her lips forming a shape I recognize but cannot place—and the sound of her voice warms me in a way I can't explain.
A child's giggle follows, a pure, ringing sound, and a little girl darts past her, barefoot, hair wild from the wind, clutching something unseen in her hand.
The scent of baking bread drifts out, mingling with the cool sea breeze—soft and fresh, the crust crackling like tiny fireworks beneath my teeth.
My mouth moves to speak—to call their names—but no sound comes.
My throat feels thick and heavy, clogged with words I never said, phrases I never found the courage to speak.
To the left of the cottage lies a forest.
Its trees stand close together, tall and dark, their leaves whispering secrets in the gentle wind.
I've never stepped past its edge, but something inside me insists I've always meant to.
I imagine the soil there—damp, rich, clinging to my skin like memory—the kind of earth you kneel in to plant seeds that might outlive you.
Rows of green shoots and delicate blossoms sway in the filtered light, though my hands have never touched them, my knees never pressed into that dark ground.
The wind shifts again, bringing the briny tang of the sea mingled with the deeper, cooler scent of moss and pine.
It all feels impossibly real—the warmth of the sun, the softness of the air, the promise of the land.
And yet the more I stand here, the clearer it becomes that none of this belongs to me.
Still, I don't want to leave.
I close my eyes and feel the warmth press around me, the steady heartbeat of that unseen family, the soft chorus of laughter fading but never gone.
I reach for the memory—the taste of bread, the brush of a hand, the scent of earth and sea mingled in the air—trying to hold it before it slips away.
But the dream trembles, flickers, and something tugs at the edges—pulling, unraveling the fragile threads.
The laughter dims to a distant echo, the sea darkens and stills.
The forest looms, shadowed and silent, its secrets waiting just beyond reach.
And I am alone again.
The weight of absence settles deep inside me—the ache of words never spoken, soil never touched, plants never planted.
I open my eyes.
The waiting room is here again.
Pale walls, silent clock, endless stillness.
Time is asleep.
And so am I, caught between worlds.