The Dream That Breaks the Silence
Sleep arrived slowly, the way dawn approached on a winter morning, hesitant and pale and uncertain. Ha Jun drifted into it with the uneasy feeling of someone stepping into deep water without knowing how cold it would be. His breathing steadied. His body relaxed. But his mind continued to move beneath the surface like a current that refused to rest.
At first everything was dark.
A soft kind of dark. The kind that did not frighten but still held a presence. A dark that felt familiar enough to be a memory rather than a dream.
He heard something.
A tiny echo.
Then a voice.
A child's voice.
Ha Jun.
Light flickered into the darkness. A thin glow, soft and trembling like a candle flame in a quiet room. It spread slowly, revealing a small path surrounded by trees. The ground was covered in pale blossoms that looked like stars had fallen from the sky and settled on the earth.
He knew this place.
It was the park behind their old house. The one they used to visit every spring. The one where she would run ahead of him with her arms open, laughing and spinning as petals clung to her hair.
The glow brightened.
Someone stood on the path.
It was her.
His youngest sister.
She wore the light blue dress she loved, the one she insisted on wearing even on days when the weather was colder than she realised. Her hair was tied with a ribbon. Her feet were bare, touching the blossoms lightly as if she were afraid of crushing them.
She looked exactly the way she did before the world lost her.
Only her eyes were different now.
They were filled with something heavier.
Something sorrowful.
She looked at him without moving.
He stepped forward.
His voice barely formed. "Eun Mi."
She tilted her head slightly, the way she did when she was listening closely.
"You came," she whispered.
He felt his heart pull painfully. "I always come."
She gave a small smile. A fragile one. It looked like it could break with the slightest touch.
The air around them felt still.
He reached out a hand. Not to touch her. Just to let her know he was there. His fingers trembled slightly.
Her eyes softened. She took a small step toward him.
Then another.
Then she stopped.
"You look tired," she said quietly.
He exhaled shakily. He did not know whether he was allowed to cry here, in this dream, in front of her. He felt like if he cried, the world around him might shatter.
"I am," he whispered. "I am so tired."
Her smile faded. Something deeper entered her expression. Understanding. Sadness. Love.
"You should rest," she said gently.
"I cannot."
"Why."
He looked down at the ground. "Because every time I close my eyes, I am afraid I will see you again."
"Is that so horrible," she asked.
"No," he said softly, "but I do not know if you want me to see you or if it is just my guilt."
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she stepped closer.
This time she reached out her hand.
Her small fingers touched his.
Warm.
Real.
Alive.
"I am not here because of guilt," she said. "I am here because I miss you."
His breath caught.
She continued, "And because you are hurting. You have been hurting for a long time. I wanted to help you."
He closed his eyes. Her words settled on him like soft rain.
He whispered, "I should have protected you."
She shook her head immediately. "You were a child. You could not protect me from everything."
"But I should have tried harder."
"You tried enough," she said firmly. "You loved me. That was enough."
He felt tears press against his eyes. He blinked them away quickly, afraid he might lose her if he let them fall.
She squeezed his hand gently.
"There is something you need to remember," she whispered.
"What."
"You are not the reason I am gone."
His breath trembled.
"You have blamed yourself every day," she said softly, "even when I never blamed you. Not once."
He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
Her voice softened. "Please stop carrying this alone."
He felt something break inside him. Not loudly, not in a violent way. But softly. A small tear in a fabric that had been stretched too tightly for years.
He let a tear fall.
Then another.
She looked at him with a sad smile. "There. You can cry. It does not make you weaker. It makes you honest."
He stared at her through blurred vision. "I miss you."
"I miss you too."
They stood there quietly, surrounded by soft petals and warm light.
A moment that felt like the kind of dream people tried to hold onto even after waking.
But something changed.
The light around them dimmed slightly.
The blossoms stirred even though no wind moved.
The trees darkened at the edges, as if night were rising from the ground itself.
Her expression shifted.
She looked over her shoulder.
Then back at him.
Fear flickered in her eyes.
He froze. "What is happening."
She shook her head. "You have to wake up."
His heart pounded. "Why."
"Wake up, Ha Jun."
"No. Not yet. Please."
Her voice trembled. "Wake up."
The light dimmed further. The path darkened. Something unseen moved in the shadows behind her.
Her small hand tightened around his.
"Wake up," she whispered urgently.
Then the world collapsed into darkness.
He jolted awake.
His breath tore from his throat. His chest heaved. Sweat clung to his skin. The room was too quiet, too dark, too still.
He sat up quickly, pressing a hand against his heart as if trying to steady it.
His lamp still glowed softly.
The photograph on his desk still sat where he left it.
Everything was normal.
Everything was untouched.
Everything was safe.
But he was not calm.
He trembled as the last echo of her voice faded from his mind.
Wake up.
He pressed both hands against his face and inhaled deeply.
The dream had felt too real.
Too warm.
Too alive.
He whispered into the silence, "Eun Mi."
Only silence answered.
He lowered his hands slowly. His breath steadied, but the unease did not leave.
Something cold lingered in the air.
Something unfamiliar.
Something heavy.
He looked toward the window.
The night outside was darker than usual. The kind of dark that watched rather than slept.
He swallowed.
Whatever waited in his dreams was not only memory.
Not only guilt.
Not only sorrow.
Something else had begun to move.
Something he did not understand.
Something that followed him from sleep into waking.
The quiet season was deepening.
And the night was beginning to change.