I knew I was dreaming the moment my feet touched the ground.
The pale field stretched endlessly before me, unchanged from before, as if it had been waiting. The sky held its familiar, muted glow—neither warm nor cold—casting soft light without a visible source. The silence welcomed me, not as emptiness, but as something deliberate.
This time, my heart did not race.
I exhaled.
"She's here," I said quietly, though no one else stood beside me.
And as if responding to the thought, I felt her presence before I saw her.
She stood not far away—closer than before.
The faceless girl was no longer at the edge of the dream. She occupied its center, her form clear against the stillness. Her posture was calm, unguarded, as though my arrival had been expected.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
I realized then that I was afraid—not of her, but of breaking whatever fragile balance held this place together. The dream felt thinner now, more sensitive. Like glass warmed by breath.
I took a step forward.
The world did not resist me.
She tilted her head slightly, a small motion that felt thoughtful rather than curious. Even without eyes, I felt her attention settle on me, steady and unafraid.
"I'm here," I said.
The words weren't meant as an announcement. They were a promise.
She began to walk.
Her steps were slow, measured, leaving no trace behind her. I matched her pace without thinking, moving alongside her rather than toward her. We did not speak. We did not need to.
The silence between us was no longer empty.
It carried weight—gentle, careful, alive.
As we walked, the field seemed to change. The light deepened, growing warmer at the edges, as though the dream itself were paying attention. I noticed how close we were now—close enough that I could feel something faint in the air between us.
Not touch.
But possibility.
I wanted to ask her name.
The thought formed clearly, insistently. Yet the moment it did, something inside me hesitated. The question felt sharp, intrusive—as if asking it might damage her, or worse, make her disappear.
So I said nothing.
Instead, I slowed my steps.
She did the same.
We stopped together.
The world held its breath.
I raised my hand—not all the way, just enough for the intention to exist. She mirrored the motion, her fingers hovering in the space between us. The distance was small. Painfully small.
Still, neither of us crossed it.
I felt it then.
A boundary.
Not visible. Not spoken. But real.
Crossing it felt wrong—not forbidden, but premature. Like reaching for a word before understanding its meaning.
Her hand lowered.
Mine followed.
The dream trembled faintly, as though relieved.
Something about that frightened me.
I turned to look at her again, searching the smooth emptiness of her face for signs I knew I wouldn't find. And yet, I felt emotion all the same—quiet reassurance, tinged with something sad.
She took a step back.
Just one.
The distance returned.
I didn't chase it.
Instead, I nodded.
She seemed to understand.
The light around us began to dim—not collapsing this time, but thinning, like dusk settling over a world that did not have nights. I felt the familiar pull at the edges of my awareness.
The dream was ending.
But before it could fade completely, a thought reached me—gentler than before, fragile and uncertain.
This place changes when you do.
My chest tightened.
"Will I see you again?" I asked.
She didn't answer.
But she stayed until the very last moment.
I woke up slowly.
Morning light crept across my room, ordinary and unremarkable. My heart felt strangely calm—and deeply unsettled.
This time, I didn't feel like I had visited a dream.
I felt like I had left somewhere behind.
And for the first time, I wondered—
What would happen if I stayed too long?