Marin rolled the violet orb in her palm, tracing the faint pulses of light as if following a heartbeat. The clouds beneath her rippled faintly with each shift, the stars suspended in the dream's sky sparkling like fragile glass. She wanted to try something... bigger. Something that felt like mastery rather than just stopping.
"Try to move more than just the clouds," Nimbus murmured lazily, lounging on his pillow. "See how it bends when you ask instead of just hold? Careful, though... it's picky. Like a cat. Or a cloud. Don't hurt it by wanting too much."
Marin nodded silently, her fingers trembling slightly. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before stretching the orb outward. The light bloomed brighter than before, washing over everything: the clouds, the mist, the faint distant lights. For an instant, the entire dreamscape slowed, then halted entirely. Even Nimbus's pillow hovered mid-air, his constellations frozen in motion.
She opened her eyes, a small thrill rising in her chest. "It works," she whispered, almost to herself.
"Yes," Nimbus said, voice thick with a long yawn. "Yes... it does. But see how it wiggles? Tiny things, tiniest things... that's life noticing. It doesn't like being paused for too long. Careful."
Marin pressed a little further, fascinated. She tried to stop a drifting star mid-twinkle. The orb's violet light flared sharply, brighter than she expected. The cloud beneath her shifted, folding strangely, and a distant streak of silver mist snapped in place like a wire pulled too tight.
A faint vibration tickled her chest, almost like a warning.
"Uh... hm," Nimbus muttered, his voice slow, amused, but there was a hint of something deeper behind it. "See? That's... not quite what I meant. Tiny nudges, not... smashing everything into stillness. Some things don't like being held too tight."
Marin's stomach tightened. She could feel it, though she didn't understand why. The dream held — just barely — but the mist trembled slightly at the edges, and somewhere deep, a faint pulse whispered, restless.
"What... did I do?" she asked, fingers tightening around the orb.
"Nothing... permanent, probably," Nimbus said lazily, though his half-lidded eyes flickered with quiet warning. "Just... something bad might start stirring. Tiny, tiny trembles in the world you left behind. You won't see it, not yet. But... it'll notice."
Marin swallowed, panic brushing against the edges of her chest. "I didn't mean to..."
Nimbus yawned, dragging one hand lazily across the pillow, leaving a faint trail of starlight in the mist. "Happens to the best of us. Not that many know how to talk to the world gently. You're learning. Everyone crashes things sometimes."
He tilted his head, half-smile curling. "Here's the trick. Don't stop. Don't panic. Move slowly. Let it listen to you. Ask it, don't shove it. Clouds, stars, tiny whispers... they're all delicate. Treat them like... pillows. Soft, honest. Don't push. Don't demand. Let them tell you what to do."
Marin nodded slowly, taking a careful breath. Her hands relaxed slightly around the orb. She tried again — smaller this time, gentle, coaxing the drift of a silver mist instead of freezing it outright. The orb's light rippled softly, the clouds swaying in response. The stars twinkled once, then continued in their lazy dance.
"Better," Nimbus murmured, voice heavy with sleep. "Patience is magic too."
She exhaled, realizing for the first time that mistakes didn't have to end everything. Not here. Not yet.
And somewhere far away — somewhere she could not see — the tiny tremble of her misstep whispered into the waking world. Something small, quiet, but restless, began to stir.
Marin did not know it.
And Nimbus yawned again, stretching across his pillow like the universe itself could relax into him. "Good first lesson. Next one... try not to break anything important. Or... do. It's up to you."
Nimbus shifted slightly on his pillow, stretching one arm toward the drifting mist. "You know... I get it." he murmured, voice thick with sleep, like honey sliding over velvet. "The world out there... loud. All these... demands. Bells, engines, people shouting for... something. Things that want pieces of you you didn't even know you had. You like silence, don't you?"
Marin stiffened slightly, but didn't look away.
"I mean... who wouldn't?" he continued, blinking slowly, starlight flickering in his eyes. "You've got... this quiet inside you. A corner where nothing touches you. You use your relic for it. Pause it all. Stop it all. Sit and... breathe. Not just for fun... but because everything else is exhausting."
She didn't answer, only tightened her grip on the violet orb, but her chest softened a fraction. He was right. She did love it. Loved the pause, the stillness. Loved the safety of not moving for once. Loved the quiet that let her breathe without worrying about someone else's fingers pulling at her edges.
Nimbus yawned, rolling slightly onto his side, letting the pillow cradle him perfectly. "Me too. I like resting. Always resting. Pillows, clouds... quiet corners of the world where nothing yells at you or tries to... poke at your thoughts. Makes life... more manageable, don't you think?"
She studied him, the way he lounged as if weightless, every fold of his clothing floating softly, the blanket draped over him like the night sky. Even his voice — slow, deliberate, dream-soft — carried a comfort she hadn't felt in a long time.
"You and me," he murmured, gesturing lazily to the clouds around them, "we're... similar. Not much noise. Not much demand. We like it still. Safe. Honest. No one can reach us here. Pillows never lie."
Marin let herself lean back slightly on the cloud beneath her. Just a little. Not toward him — she wouldn't dare — but close enough that she could feel the serenity of the dream wrapping around her.
"I... never really... had this," she whispered softly, almost to herself. "A place to... just rest. Without... someone asking for something."
Nimbus's lips twitched into the faintest, lazy smile. "It's nice, isn't it? Nothing pressing. No one shouting. No one tugging at your edges. Just... clouds and stars and... a good pillow."
Marin exhaled, a quiet sigh of relief slipping past her lips. Here, in this suspended dreamspace, no one could hurt her. No one could manipulate her. And the orb in her hand, responding to her touch, was proof that even her power — her relic — could feel safe, if she treated it gently.
"Next time you pause," Nimbus murmured, half-yawning, half-philosophical, "remember... it's okay to just... be. Don't try to control everything. You don't have to fix the world. Just... nudge it. See how it listens when you whisper, not when you shout."
Marin nodded, letting the advice settle, understanding it in a way that felt strangely freeing. For the first time, she realized: maybe her stillness wasn't weakness. Maybe it was... enough.
And Nimbus, sprawled across his pillow like a lazy constellation, simply watched, eyes half-closed, as if approving in the gentlest way possible.
"Good," he murmured, voice soft as the clouds themselves. "Very good. Now... just breathe. Learn. And... maybe rest a little, too. You're allowed."
The clouds below her shimmered softly, the stars suspended like frozen sparks, and the silver mist wound through the dreamspace in lazy spirals. She wanted... control. She wanted perfection.
"Maybe if I just..." she whispered, pressing the light outward, willing the clouds to hold still, the stars to pause mid-twinkle, the mist to freeze like glass.
Nimbus yawned, half-smile twitching, pillow cradling him like he'd been sleeping a hundred years. "Uh-huh. Yeah... careful... careful now..." His words drifted lazily, but something about the tone made her tighten her grip.
The violet glow flared brighter than she'd meant. Clouds folded sharply, and a star fractured mid-twinkle, splitting into tiny sparks that hovered unnaturally. Mist twisted into impossible loops, curling over itself.
Marin froze, panic rising. "I didn't—"
Nimbus's half-lidded eyes flicked to her, calm, playful, but with a tension in the slight twitch of his mouth. "Hm. Yep. See? Tiny hiccups, tiny.. cracks." He yawned again, dragging one hand lazily across his pillow. "Not terrible. Not permanent... yet. But... maybe... maybe it's time to rest."
Marin frowned. "Rest? What do you mean? I... I need—"
"You're... trying too hard," Nimbus murmured, voice thick with that ever-present, dreamy fatigue. "See, the world... it notices. Things twitch. Things sigh. You don't... want to know what watches when clouds fold wrong. Or... maybe you do. But I'm... tired. Too tired to say."
He curled slightly into his pillow, letting the blanket drift over him like mist. "Go ahead. Rest. Watch. Breathe. Don't... push. Not now. I... I have things I don't... talk about. Things I shouldn't. Big things. Nasty things. Dreams... sometimes they... notice. And I'm... sleepy."
Marin's hand shook, the orb pulsing faintly. She wanted answers. She wanted control. She wanted him to tell her what was wrong, what she had done, what would happen if the cracks spread. But all she got was the sound of his slow, deliberate breathing and the soft rustle of the pillow.
She realized slowly: he wasn't abandoning her. Not exactly. But he couldn't stay. He was retreating behind his fatigue, behind his philosophy, behind the things he didn't name.
...Like her.
Marin let her hands fall to her lap, orb still glowing softly. The clouds quivered faintly, and the stars flickered uncertainly, but she could only watch.
"You... learn alone sometimes," Nimbus murmured, voice fading as he tucked further into the pillow, eyes almost closed. "I... can't always hold the edges for you. Not when... it gets... nasty. Rest. Observe. Don't... crash it all. Not yet."
And with that, the figure of the ethereal child—part god, part cloud, part impossible dream—seemed to blur at the edges, becoming more light than form, until all she could see was the pillow gently cradling him, the constellations stitched into the fabric drifting lazily in suspended air.
Marin exhaled slowly, sinking onto the cloud beneath her. She wanted to argue, to push, to demand explanations. But she knew it would do no good. Nimbus had retreated, not in anger, not in fear—but in tiredness, in avoidance, in something she couldn't name.
The dream was still beautiful. Serene. Inviting. And yet... she could feel it twitch. The pulse of the cracks she'd made hovered faintly in the shimmer of the clouds.
Rest. Watch. Breathe. That was the instruction she had been given. Nothing more.
And somewhere, deep beneath the glittering mist, something stirred.