Sunlight pressed against his eyelids.
A boy stirred beneath the rough blanket and turned his face away from the light spilling through the cracks in the wooden gaps.
For a few moments, he stayed half asleep.
His mind was still tangled inside the dream.
No.
Not a dream.
It had felt too large for that.
He had seen towers taller than mountains.
Roads made from black stone stretched farther than the eye could see, smooth as river water and filled with metal carriages that moved without horses.
He had seen people walking through cities brighter than stars.
There were lights hanging from ceilings without flame.
Boxes that spoke.
Walls made of glass.
Food piled so high that people threw away what they could not finish.
People wore soft clothes of every color imaginable.
They drank hot water mixed with leaves and sugar from tiny cups while speaking casually about things that sounded impossible for a human to worry about.
There were schools,hospitals and libraries larger than castles.
Children laughing in parks without fear.
Old men sleeping in the sun without worrying whether soldiers would come.
And above all else, the people there had looked free.
The thought made his chest tighten.
Slowly, the boy opened his eyes.
The dream vanished like mist in the morning.
Above him was the familiar roof of old wood and straw.
A small crack stretched across one of the ceiling beams.
He had counted it so many times over the years that he could trace its shape in his sleep.
The room smelled faintly of dust, old cloth, and smoke from the cooking fire.
A chill lingered in the corners despite the morning light.
The boy sat up slowly on his straw mattress.
His head felt heavy.
Strange images still floated through his thoughts like pieces of a broken mirror.
He remembered people speaking into little glowing rectangles.
He remembered giant metal birds flying through the sky.
He remembered warm rooms during winter.
He remembered people eating white bread so soft it looked like clouds.
He remembered people arguing with rulers instead of kneeling to them.
His fingers tightened around the thin blanket.
It did not make sense.
Humans could not live like that.
Humans were not supposed to live like that.
Humans were supposed to live in villages.
They were supposed to work until their hands cracked and bled.
They were supposed to lower their heads when soldiers passed by.
They were supposed to be grateful when taxes did not take everything.
That was the way of the world.
Wasn't it?
The boy frowned.
Something inside him resisted that thought.
The dream ignited a yearning in him.
But-
The dream was impossible.
Even then-
As though somewhere, somehow, he had once seen such a world with his own eyes.
He looked down at his hands.
Calloused and slightly bony.
A few faint scars across his knuckles.
The hands of a village boy.
Not the hands of the person from the dream.
He could not even remember that person's face.
Only feelings remained.
Warmth of comfortable fire.
Security from the injustice and violence.
His heart ran a little faster.
For the first time in his life, the little house around him felt smaller.
The walls looked ordinary and the air felt rough and dusty.
The world beyond the village suddenly seemed too narrow.
*Slap
The boy slapped his head and pushed the blanket aside.
Dreams did not feed people.
Dreams did not carry water or chop wood.
He had work to do.
He stood up from the mattress and stretched.
"Whuaaaah.."
The floorboards groaned softly beneath his feet.
He crossed the small room and pushed open the crooked wooden door.
The house was tiny.
Only two rooms and a narrow kitchen space.
The walls were made of old timber patched with clay.
The roof leaked whenever the rains grew too heavy.
In winter, cold crept through every crack like a thief.
Yet it was home.
As he stepped into the kitchen, warmth greeted him.
A small cooking fire crackled beneath a blackened iron pot.
Thin steam rose toward the ceiling.
His grandmother stood beside the stove.
Her back was bent.
Her gray hair was tied into a loose knot.
Her clothes were old and patched in several places.
Even so, her hands moved with calm certainty as she stirred the pot.
The morning sunlight fell across her shoulders, making the edges of her worn shawl glow softly.
For a moment, the strange dream disappeared completely.
The boy simply stood there and watched her.
His grandmother glanced over her shoulder.
The lines on her face softened when she saw him.
"Did you sleep well Perrin?" she said.
Her voice was rough from age but warm enough to melt winter.
"You were tossing around like a fish all night."
The boy, Perrin blinked.
Then he rubbed the back of his neck.
"I had a strange dream," he said quietly.
"Did you?"
She snorted softly and returned to stirring the pot.
"If strange dreams made people rich, we'd be living in a palace by now."
Perrin smiled faintly.
Outside, he could hear the village slowly waking.
The distant sound of chickens.
A cart wheel creaking over dirt.
Someone shouting at a stubborn goat.
The ordinary sounds of another ordinary day.