The world outside my window never seemed to tire. From my room here in Thailand, I watched the evening rush begin—a chaotic symphony of neon signs reflecting off wet asphalt and the endless hum of motorbikes weaving through traffic. People were moving with purpose, rushing toward lives that seemed to fit them perfectly.
I envied them.
I turned back to my desk, where the shadows of the room seemed to pool around my engineering textbooks. The formulas on the pages felt like a language I was losing the ability to speak. The pressure wasn't a sudden weight; it was a slow, rising tide that had been drowning me for weeks. I was exhausted, and the world felt fundamentally unfair. Why was I here, struggling with diagrams and deadlines, while the rest of the world seemed so light?
I needed to disappear.
I reached for my headphones, the familiar plastic a relief against my ears. I didn't browse for something new; I went straight to the song that had become my sanctuary. As the first notes of Welcome to Wonderland began to play, the room didn't just go quiet—it vanished.
I closed my eyes, and for a heartbeat, there was only the music. Then, the air changed.
The heavy, humid heat of the Thai evening was gone. In its place was a crisp, sharp chill that smelled of freshly baked bread and the comforting, smoky aroma of firewood. I opened my eyes and gasped.
I was standing on a cobblestone street that felt centuries old. The buildings were grand, dark-timbered structures with lanterns hanging from iron hooks, casting a warm, flickering amber glow over the path. This wasn't the hazy logic of a dream. It was vivid. I could feel the biting cold on the tip of my nose and the solid weight of the stones beneath my shoes.
Everywhere I looked, couples were walking hand-in-hand. They looked immensely happy, their laughter blending with the distant sound of a violin.
"You're finally here," a voice murmured.
He was standing just a few paces away. Even without being able to see his face—which remained a soft, shifting blur like a memory you can't quite grasp—his presence was overwhelming. He wore a long, dark coat of heavy fabric, his posture so poised and graceful that it made the very ground beneath us feel more stable.
We walked together, exploring the winding streets. We sat in front of a roaring outdoor fire, the orange light dancing against the velvet of his sleeve. We laughed about things I couldn't remember the moment they were said, but the feeling—the sheer, bubbling joy of it—was more real than any textbook I had ever read.
Then, he led me toward an open courtyard. Above us, the sky was a deep, impossible indigo, crowded with stars that looked like diamonds scattered on a jeweler's cloth. As the music swelled, we began to dance. He moved with "great manners," his hand steady on my waist, guiding me through a waltz that felt like flying.
But as the song began to wind down, a sense of dread filled my chest. I saw the other couples beginning to separate, fading into the mist at the edge of the street. It was time to leave.
"Don't be sad," he whispered, leaning down so his blurry face was close to mine. His voice was a low, melodic velvet. "Even if this is just a dream, let it be a happy memory in the morning."
I clutched at his sleeve, my fingers twisting in the fabric. "I don't want to forget."
"Don't search for it," he said softly, his grip on my hand tightening for just a second. "I'll be a song in your heart. I was always there."
The world began to tilt. The scent of firewood vanished into the smell of my stagnant room. The biting cold turned back into the humid Thai morning.
I bolted upright in bed, my heart thumping. The sun was peeking through the curtains, and the silence of my room felt heavy. What a great dream, I thought, rubbing my face. Just a dream.
I moved to get up, but something caught the light on my T-shirt.
Stuck to the cotton of my sleeve was a single, dark crimson thread. It was thick and coarse, exactly like the fabric of his coat. My breath hitched. I picked it up between my fingers, feeling its weight—a physical proof that I hadn't been alone.
But as I stared at it, the thread began to fade. The deep red turned translucent, losing its color and its shape. Within seconds, it dissolved into the morning air, leaving my hand completely empty.
The scent of sandalwood lingered for a heartbeat, and then—nothing.