The Cost of Dreaming

Written by Chris Zang from Princeton Day School, New Jersey, USA

Alora had always been a dreamer, but her dreams were often fragments and slivers, like shards of images scattered across her mind. Sometimes they were harmless and lighthearted. Other times they were unsettling and gave her chills: dark shadows, walls that breathed as they closed in tighter and tighter, voices whispering words in the background that she could never quite understand.

But those dreams never embedded themselves into her memory. They slipped away the moment she opened her eyes, ceasing to exist.

This night was different.

She closed her eyes, expecting nothing more than the usual refreshing rest. Instead, she woke to the scent of smoke and rain. The world around her was no longer her cozy dorm room. She stood upright on a cobblestone path slick with silver water while a heavy ultraviolet sky pressed down from above. Towers and skyscrapers twisted and turned at impossible angles. Bridges arched over rivers that flowed backwards, carrying rippling currents of liquid light.

A city like no other stretched in every direction. Alive, impossible, and for some reason, terrifyingly real.

People around her moved as if this were ordinary. A child giggled as he ran down the road, chasing a kite shaped like a dragon, its paper wings snapping in the strange wind. A woman in a crimson scarf carried a basket of what seemed like fruit despite their odd sizes, shapes, and colors. A group of men argued on the corner as the road itself slid beneath their feet, rearranging where it led.

Alora pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart thudded painfully.

“This isn’t real,” she whispered. “It’s just a silly dream.”

But when she looked down, the water had soaked her clothes, and her skin was frigid. When she breathed in, smoke and rain filled her lungs.

And then she saw it—something that stood out. Something about it didn’t match the vibe of the world around it.

A dark shadow stretched itself along a nearby wall, taller than the towers. Its limbs were elongated and grotesque. It had no eyes, only hollow holes filled with smoke. Its fingers scraped across the bricks, leaving streaks of black ash.

Suddenly, it turned towards her. Alora stumbled backwards, a scream rising in her throat.

“Stay still,” a voice commanded.

She spun. A man stood a few steps behind her. His face was hidden behind a white iron mask with gold detailing. His coat shimmered faintly, embroidered with fragments of starlight. A dagger glowed faintly in his hand.

“Don’t let it hear you,” he said calmly.

But it was too late. The shadow’s head snapped in their direction, nostrils flaring as smoke slithered out, tasting her fear. It hissed, like rust scraping metal.

The masked man raised his dagger and slashed the air. A burst of white and golden light erupted, flooding the street. The shadow shrieked, dissolving into mist before her eyes.

Silence fell.

“What-what was that?” Alora’s knees were on the verge of buckling.

The man lowered his blade. “That was A Nightmare. And this,” he gestured at the skyline, “is Somnara. The city that dreams of you. Welcome, Alora. We’ve been expecting you.”

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The next morning, Alora tried to convince herself that Somnara was nothing more than the result of stress and exhaustion. After all, she had been drowning in exams and was often cramming late into the night. It made sense that her mind had produced something incredibly surreal.

And yet, when she closed her eyes again the following night, she saw that same ultraviolet sky. She was back in Somnara.

This time, she found herself in a marketplace. The stalls bustled with business, merchants relentlessly advertising their products next to candles that seemed alive, whispering secrets. Those around her were familiar faces, but she couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

Alora drifted between the vendors, too stunned to speak, until she saw the woman. She stood out among the others as she sat on the steps of a crooked tower, with parchment sprawled across her lap. Her hair was streaked with silver strands, her hands ink-stained, her eyes sharp as she drew with a glowing and smoky pen. The lines on her map moved on their own, rearranging like living organisms.

Alora hesitated, but something told her she should approach the woman. “What are you drawing?”

Without looking up, the woman said, “The city. Or at least, I’ll try.” She tapped the parchment. “Somnara changes every night, but there are patterns.” She lifted her gaze, looking Alora up and down.

“You’re new. One of the Rememberers.”

“Remember- what?”

“Remember. The people you see around you, they are all dreamers. Most dreamers forget Somnara the moment they wake. But not us. We carry it back with us.” She leaned forward. “And the more you remember, the more it remembers you.”

Alora frowned. “That sounds like a curse.”

The woman smiled faintly. “It’s also a blessing. I am the Cartographer. And you, Alora, are chosen.”

Alora flinched. “How do you know my name?”

“The city whispers. It wants you here. Somnara is weakening. Nightmares spread faster; districts collapse. If the city falls, so will your world. Dreams will vanish. Humanity will unravel.”

The words struck like a blow. “That can't be true.”

The Cartographer rolled up her map. “Then watch closely. You’ll see.”

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By her third night, Alora no longer denied it. Somnara wasn’t a passing dream. It was waiting for her.

She ran into the masked man again on a glass bridge spanning a river flowing backwards. He moved like a shadow himself, quick and deliberate, his blade ready at his side.

“You survived,” he said.

“I don’t know how,” Alora admitted.

His masked head tilted. “Because you’re meant to. The city chose you, and it doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Why me?” she demanded.

“No one knows,” the Nightwatcher replied. “But Somnara doesn’t choose lightly.”

Alora studied him. His coat shimmered faintly, the stars stitched into it breathing slowly. “You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?”

“Too long. The city takes pieces of you. Some lose their faces, their identities and their names. I choose how I fade.”

A shivering, tingly feeling ran through her spine. She wanted to ask what he had lost, but his silence told her enough.

They crossed the bridge together while, in the distance, a district crumbled into mist, towers folding in on themselves like paper. Alora’s chest tightened.

“This is what the Cartographer meant,” she said.

“Yes,” the Nightwatcher replied. “Somnara is dying. And so is your world with it.”

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Alora’s sixth night in Somnara was different from all the others so far.

She didn’t wake into the usual streets or glass bridges. Instead, the sky above her burned white like glass, and the ground beneath her shimmered and mirrored tiles that reflected not her face, but fragments of her other lives.

In one reflection, she was older, eyes full of wisdom and grief. In another, she was barefoot, wandering through deserts that rippled with starlight. In one more, she was nothing but a puff of black smoke.

The path led her to the Palace of Reflection, a towering structure of shattered glass and molten gold. Its walls pulsed faintly, as though the building itself had a heartbeat. The air inside hummed with ticking clocks, each one out of sync. On the throne sat Somnara’s ruler, King Insomnis.

He was not human. His body was polished silver, and his form shifted with every blink. A crown of broken clock hands circled his head, and his eyes, ancient and unblinking, gleamed with sorrow.

“Alora.” His voice rumbled like thunder through the mirrored hall, echoing in every direction. “You have finally reached me.”

She shuddered. “Why am I here?”

“Because Somnara needs you. Through you, the city breathes. Through you, it bleeds.” Alora stepped forward, heart pounding. “I never asked for this.”

“No one does. Somnara chooses.” The king’s gaze flicked to the shattered ceiling, while subtly shaking his head. “Our time is running out. Nightmares rise, districts crumble. The map unravels. Without an anchor, Somnara will fall.”

“And if it falls?”

He leaned forward, and when he spoke, his voice carried a quiet sorrow. “If Somnara dies, your world loses the gift of dreaming. No visions, no stories, no hope. Minds will gradually go crazy: madness will spread like fire.”

The words rooted her to the floor.

“You must decide,” he said. “Stay permanently in Somnara and lose yourself in your world, keeping Somnara alive, or watch as humanity becomes senseless.”

Alora’s breath became quick and shallow. She thought about her mother’s laughter and her dorm room filled with notes. Then there was Somnara with its ultraviolet skies, rivers flowing upward, and the hum of candles whispering secrets. She stood at the center of two worlds, and both were breaking.

Alora looked down at her hands. They were trembling. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Then listen to the city. It knows.”

And in that moment, she realized she could hear it – the heartbeat of Somnara. Weak, but still alive.

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The floor violently shook. A sharp crack split the mirrored hall from end to end.

From the opening spilled shadows, dozens at first, then hundreds. Nightmares clawed their way into the palace, shrieking in piercing, scratchy voices.

The Nightwatcher moved like lightning, his blade arcing in silvery crescents. Each swing burned through the shadows, dissolving them into vapor. But it wasn’t enough.

Towers crumbled beyond the palace walls. Bridges folded inward, devoured by mist. The rivers boiled upward, spilling silver into the sky. The city screamed around them, like a dying god in its final breaths.

King Insomnis’ voice thundered, “Alora! It is time!”

Her heart almost stopped. Her eyes burned. Time for what? She wanted to shout. To choose? She looked from one face to another.

“If you stay, you’ll lose yourself,” the Nightwatcher cried, cutting through another wave of monsters. “You’ll never wake again!”

Suddenly the Cartographer appeared and whispered, “If you go, we all vanish. You, me, every dreamer. All stories will become forgotten in silence.”

Alora could feel the weight of both worlds pulling at her. The hum of Somnara beneath her feet, the ghost of her waking life tugging at her heart. Her dorm, her friends, her future. The stars above her blinked, flaring bright as if urging her to act.

Her voice broke. “ I don’t want to choose.”

But she already knew she must.

The palace shook harder. The shadows swelled. The heartbeat beneath her weakened.

Alora closed her eyes. Her hands glowed faintly, covered in the same silver light that coursed through Somnara’s veins. The city’s pulse synced with her own.

One word rose to her lips, a vow, a plea, a decision. She wasn’t sure which. And then a bright, blinding light consumed everything.

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Alora awoke with a start, her chest heaving.

The buzz of her dorm lamp filled the silence. Stacks of papers lay scattered across her desk. Rain pattered softly against the window pane.

She sat up slowly, heart still hammering.

“It was just a dream,” she whispered. “ A bad dream.”

She pressed her palm to her face and laughed shakily. Stress, she told herself. Exams. Sleep deprivation. That’s all it was.

But as her laughter faded, the room seemed too still. The rain’s rhythm stuttered, and she caught a sign of movement at the window.

A droplet slid down the glass, silver and not clear. It glowed faintly, pulsing once, twice, like a heartbeat. More followed, curving into lines that branched like rivers. Streets. Towers. A map.

Her breath jerked. “No.”

Alora reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the glass. The glow smeared under her touch, leaving only a faint shimmer like frost. The lines were gone, but the chill lingered on her skin.

She sat back on her bed, staring into the darkness. Did I choose? The question circled her mind like a whisper. She searched her mind for an answer, but only found silence.

Outside, the rain resumed its steady fall. And beneath it, faint but certain, Alora thought she heard it. The slow, rhythmic beat of something vast and alive.

The heartbeat of a city. The city that dreams of you.

Somnara.