Earth is not a lonely place. Billions of people have everyday conversations they take for granted. The dream weaver, Aelora, thinks differently. Living in solitude, she weaves her dreams during the day, and shares them during the night. Her current dream? Something of comfort, of sadness, of happiness. She had infused the five senses into her dream, which is a thread that originally seemed night blue but altered to a forest green for a helpless sense. Something that’s seemingly within reach is just out of reach, perhaps giving off the tiniest bit of discomfort. She adds a sense of home to this dream, a soft yellow thread. Just like home, but more comforting. She infused all emotions, but mixed. A beautiful silver piece of thread in the dream realm where the weaver lives, but so colorful and also colorless on Earth. Happiness, then despair, then becoming excitement, cycle throughout. Placing her dream onto a delicately grown leaf, it slowly slides down to the human world. This journey will take days in the dream realm, but hours to all living on Earth. Each takes its own journey down to Earth. Perhaps it won’t land on a human, but a cat. A turtle! A fish! Who knew? They always seemed to choose themselves. Some amazing happiness always seemed to come whenever she sent the threads down to Earth. The dream weaver wove together all those to create something amazing, undefinable. Something beautiful but ungraspable. Dreams. Some of her dreams are made with happiness and joy, seeming like a light in the dark, while others are… changed. They become mixed, altered and turned into what you may call a ‘nightmare’ during their journey down to Earth. These dreams attempt, like all dreams, to show you something. Perhaps it’s a glance into the future, or maybe a lesson to learn. But they are overlooked. Children wake up screaming, sweating and crying. Aelora cannot change this. No matter how hard she tries, the dreams, slowly gliding down, seem to change beyond her control. Not always a change for the better, but often a change for the worse. 

Occasionally, a thread drops to the ground. Today is no different. An elderly woman is taking a walk down the street, relishing the refreshingly cool scent of the night air. Pine trees and sage, like she always told her grandchildren. She pauses at the top of the hill she just climbed, and gazes around in awe at her surroundings. City lights majestically light up the night sky, as the murmuring of people slowly die down. A beautiful place to be. Finally deciding to move on, she then notices something glimmering on the other side of the street, slowly floating down to the ground. Not red, not orange, or any color known, despite how ordinary it seems. A thread. Crossing the street, the elder looks down at it. She then proceeds to bend over, and much to the despair of her groaning back, she picks it up. Anybody else might have thrown it away, but not her. She had been taught to seek hidden meanings in the most ordinary of things. The thread gave off a faint glimmer. So, so faint but seemingly lighting up the entire sky. She carefully pulls the thread apart, into three. Something about this thread seems magical. 

Heading home, she can’t seem to stop thinking about it. When she finally falls into restless sleep, her usual dreams aren’t persisting. Instead, small fragments of dreams float around in her mind. So close she could almost feel it, but too far to grasp what happened. 

In the living room, sitting on some rocking chair. Back and forth. Back and Forth. To and Fro. To and Fro. A fire began burning in the fireplace. She could finally relax. But it burnt harder and harder, bigger and bigger. Overtaking the fireplace, it snaked over to her feet–

The scene changed.

Wind in her face, her head in the clouds but her feet still feeling the ground. So high yet so low – then she fell. How, she didn’t know. Why, she didn’t know. Couldn’t think. Falling…

The sky and ground flickered. Changed. Disappeared…

She was in her early twenties again. Back straight, legs down., sitting in her favorite rolling chair. Working on her computer. Something around her vision moves. The lights blink. Disappear. Blackout. Her computer keeps going. Doesn’t stop…

As she woke up the next morning, she found the three threads settled in her palm. Three threads. Three dreams. Finally deciding to put her unease from her dreams to rest, the elderly woman starts what she does best. Pulling out yarn, some thin metal bars and her hot glue gun, she starts weaving herself a basket. The three threads resting in her palm are weaved in as well. Though her basket is weaved in haste, not a moment to lose for she’ll soon leave for her morning walk, it seems to give a magical glow. But immediately after blinking, the glow disappears. A trick of light, the elderly woman decides. Cocking her head at the basket, she sighs, realizing her haste has caused it to become lopsided. Placing it gently on her bed, she leaves for her walk.

Aelora jerks up suddenly. Something is tugging. Something is calling her down… to Earth. Another thread, she guesses immediately. Threads from the dream realm have a strange, undefinable connection to her once they fall accidentally to the human world. Ignoring it, she continues her work. But the pull persists, similar to how a toddler may insist on a piece of candy. Never having experienced such a thing before, Aelora decides to see. As she bends over one of the many puddles in her world, through it, she sees something, at least to her, extraordinary. A piece of thread – actually three, Aelora realizes, woven delicately into a lopsided basket. So beautifully created despite how unbalanced it was. True thought, no matter how quick, was put into it. Her hand reaches into the puddle to take the creation to her dream realm – before realizing that she mustn’t. Aelora may live alone, but she understands: She should not steal. The other dreams can wait, Aelora decided. She has a special one to create. Returning to her weaving, Aelora has to create something amazing.

A firefly flew down that evening, threads bound around it. The firefly landed on the old woman’s hand at midnight. Slowly, a dream unraveled. 

An elderly woman found herself in a room. So empty – but not. She lightly brushed her fingertips on a table with a broken leg – and a flower miraculously grew out. She touched a chair. Small, yellow wildflowers bloomed from the crusty old-looking chair. Slowly, the crooked walls became covered in small plants sprouting from the cracks. The floor, ugly and hard, became hidden under a soft moss covering. The furniture grew ferns, flowers and leaves. The originally bland room became… beautiful.

As the elder gazed around in wonder, a door appeared. She cautiously popped her head in. Another room – but this time, the room wasn’t dull at all. It was small, but felt like a queen’s palace. The carpet was red, red velvet. The walls… The fireplace… all so majestic. 

The elder took a step forward into a room. A butterfly appeared from her step. 

Another step. Another butterfly.

Soon, she was dancing with butterflies in the palace, feeling decades younger. 

But then, the butterflies one by one flit away to another door, one the elder hadn’t noticed. She stepped in, curious to see what she might find. To her dismay, she found a living room. A very basic one, with lights, a piano, a couch and television. She sat down on the couch. Something about this was comforting, she realized once she sat. Standing up to explore, the comforting feeling disappeared. What replaced it when she pressed a key on the piano? Happiness. Confused, the elder stood on the carpet. A feeling of contentment spread around. A room of emotions, she decided. That’s what she would call it. As the elder once again settled into the couch for a quick nap, some prickling feeling arose around her. Sitting up, she noticed… Another door. Without any hesitation, she immediately walked in. Looking around, she felt something about this was familiar. This room… She knows it. But from where? As her eyes traveled around, her gaze eventually landed on a person. Aelora. The elder staggers back in confusion. How did she know the – the dream weaver’s name?

“Do you know what Chynara means in the dream realm?” Aelora was seated on a chair – one with a red velvet cushion, a table too familiar…

Chynara gaped at the furniture, barely hearing the dream weaver’s words. This was her mother’s home. Exactly how she remembered… before the fire. The fire that destroyed her childhood.

“Chynara means ‘she who walks through dreams’, ” Aelora continued, not missing a beat. “I chose my name as Aelora to mean lore and aether, ‘knowledge of dreams’” Aelora smiled as the elder sat on the chair across from her.

“I understand dreams. I understand how they’re made, and perhaps just slightly of what they want.”

“But dreams themselves are often uncontrollable on how they change. I cannot change that. You walk through them, though. You understand them, Chynara. You can change them. You can hold them. You can control them.” The weaver stood up.

“Your lopsided basket can mean a lot, did you know that?” Aelora cocked her head at the elder. “Dreams aren’t easy to control,  Saudari.” 

“But you can do it.” 

Aelora walked out of the door, leaving Chynara fumbling with her basket she didn’t know she had held. 

The next day, the old woman was gone.