Timekeeper

It was the kind of place you’d never notice unless you were looking for it. The kind of place that hid in plain sight, tucked away between a laundromat and a dry cleaner’s on an unremarkable street. There was no sign, no indication of what lay beyond the nondescript door. But I knew.

I had heard whispers, rumors passed between artists like prized secrets. An auction house, they said. A hidden auction house that dealt in dreams.

Dreams were currency in our society. They could be bought and sold, used to inspire or manipulate or entertain. But not all dreams were created equal. The most powerful ones—the rare ones—were worth more than money could buy.

I had always been a dreamer, both literally and figuratively. As an artist, my work was fueled by my own vivid dreams and restless imagination. But lately, inspiration had been hard to come by. My canvases sat empty, my mind a barren wasteland.

So when I heard about the hidden auction house, I knew I had to see it for myself.

The door creaked open with a sound that sent shivers down my spine. I stepped inside cautiously, feeling as though I was crossing some invisible threshold into another world.

The room beyond was dimly lit and filled with rows upon rows of glass cases. Each case contained a single dream—a swirling mass of colors and shapes that seemed to pulse with its own energy.

I wandered through the room in awe, drawn to the dreams like a moth to a flame. Some were beautiful—a riot of vibrant hues and intricate patterns that made my heart ache with longing. Others were darker—shadows and whispers that sent chills down my spine.

And then I saw it.

Nestled at the back of one of the cases was the most breathtaking dream I had ever seen. It glowed softly, casting an ethereal light that seemed to fill the room. I could almost feel its power, like a current of electricity running through my veins.

I knew in that moment that I had to have it.

I looked around nervously, half expecting someone to step out from the shadows and tell me that dreams like this were not meant for the likes of me. But the room was empty, save for the dreams and their glass cases.

With trembling hands, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag. It contained every penny I had to my name—a meager sum, but enough to buy a dream or two if I was lucky.

I approached the counter cautiously, as though half-expecting it to disappear before my eyes. But it held firm, and I placed my bag of coins on its worn surface.

The dreamkeeper appeared silently from the shadows—a tall figure draped in a cloak of midnight blue. Their face was hidden beneath a hood, but I could feel their eyes on me as they examined my offering.

“Are you sure?” they asked finally, their voice a low whisper that sent shivers down my spine.

I nodded eagerly, unable to find my voice.

The dreamkeeper reached into one of the glass cases with slender fingers and plucked out the dream. It pulsed softly in their hand as they approached the counter and placed it before me.

“Be careful what you do with this,” they warned. “Dreams have consequences.”

And then they were gone, disappearing back into the shadows as though they had never been there at all.

I picked up the dream gingerly, cradling it in my hands like a fragile bird. Its light seeped through my fingers, warming me from within. For the first time in a long time, I felt alive with possibility.

Little did I know just how much that dream would cost me.