Quoted By:
A melody gently tickles the edge of your ears, bringing you out of the sweet darkness of restful sleep.
You know this song well: a harmonious echo from a life that feels so, so far away, a melody of sadness, melancholy, and hope. Yet, a strange empathy buzzes in your chest, a stirring feeling that doesn’t seem like yours. It pulses with a haunting familiarity, subsuming <span class="mu-s">your</span> mind with <span class="mu-i">someone</span> else.
<span class="mu-i">I am me and no one else.</span> With fear comes your mantra; the fog of dreamy amnesia is lifted.
The ill-defined world around you is the recurrent dream you've often experienced. Shifting grays and browns of jagged rocks surround you in an oppressive embrace, their rough surfaces muted by an otherworldly murky haze masking all details, almost like peering through waters.
This is a prison—a hole inside some forgotten cavern, where stepping through the only exit awakens you in sweat and lethargy, with a fever following soon afterward.
That was the toll extracted by this cursed dream for trying to master your mind.
Each exhale, each movement of your fingers as you pluck this gentle song from the flute in your hands, comes with an intuitive ease that feels absolute.
Because <span class="mu-i">you</span> are playing, and yet <span class="mu-s">you</span> aren’t.
A noise echoes from outside—a hollow thumping sound from a massive thing— and a flowing wind almost like a long sigh invades the lonely cavern, disturbing the musician wearing your skin. They stop their melody and rest the flute on their thighs, peering into the dark hole leading outside where <span class="mu-i">something</span> lurks. An orange-red light pushes through the inky darkness, slowly moving to coalescent into an orb with barely any hue. A heavier windflow follows this manifestation and... instead of fear, you feel reassured. You don't think to move your hands yet they do, grasping the instrument to breathe musical life into it...
<span class="mu-i">''Don't be sad.''</span> <span class="mu-s">Y</span><span class="mu-i">o</span><span class="mu-b">u</span> No spoke <span class="mu-r">No!</span>.
--
''Urgh.''
You awaken to sweaty bedsheets. The strong morning lights erinaccompanied by the songs of birds that still haven't left for the coming winter reassure you somewhat; you've managed to get good hours of sleep so your day shouldn't be ruined, unlike yesterday.
''Third time this week...'' You mumble, taking the towel you've brought as a precaution to wipe the sweat still clinging to your body.
This recurring dream haunted your entire life. It started when you were nothing more than a sprout, invading your private sleep once or twice a year. Like a disease with worsening symptoms, the frequency increased as you grew up; once roughly every three months during your early teens, worsening into once a month as you approached adulthood, and now that you'll touch twenty winters... You've been left with no choice but to endure this complication and accept that good nights of sleep have become a luxury.
Still, three nights in a row is a first.
