Eldermere lay hidden between mountains, a valley where the mist clung to the fields each morning and the river ran silent as though afraid to disturb the air. Outsiders rarely visited, and those who did always left unsettled, though they could not say why.

The villagers welcomed them with polite smiles, offered bread and ale, but there was a stillness beneath their words, a kind of emptiness that lingered in their eyes. It was the emptiness of a people who had not dreamed in generations.

No one in Eldermere could remember when the dreams had ended. The elders spoke of it as if it had always been so, a simple fact of life like winter following autumn. At night, they slept in black silence. Children grew without the wonder of flying in their sleep or whispering to stars only they could see.

Adults awoke each morning with no memory of night but the weight of rest. Over time, they forgot what dreams even were, treating the word as something fanciful, a relic of old tales. The silence of sleep was their heritage.

But one child broke that silence. Her name was Liora, and she was nine years old when she first told her mother that she had seen a river of light in her sleep. Her mother froze, her face paling as if the girl had spoken blasphemy. “Nonsense,” she whispered, forcing a smile. “It was just your imagination before sleep.” But Liora shook her head with the stubborn certainty of a child. “No, Mama. I saw it. I walked beside it. It sang.” That night marked the beginning of Eldermere’s unraveling.

At first, her mother told no one, hoping it was a passing fancy. But Liora spoke of her dream at school, describing it in vivid detail: the river glowing like molten glass, fish leaping that shimmered like stars, voices humming from its depths. The other children stared wide-eyed, half in fear, half in envy. None had ever known such visions. One boy whispered that his grandmother once told him people used to see pictures in their sleep. By sundown, the entire village had heard of Liora’s claim.

The elders summoned her before the council. The council hall was dark and cold, lit only by oil lamps that made the carved faces of long-dead leaders flicker in shadow. Elder Carwyn, a man with a beard like winter frost, leaned close and asked Liora to repeat what she had seen.

She did, unafraid, her voice bright as she spoke of the river, the light, the voices calling her name. The elders exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, Elder Carwyn spoke: “Dreams are dangerous, child. Do not speak of them again.” His words carried a finality that was meant to end the matter. But it did not.

Liora could not keep quiet. Each night brought new visions. She dreamed of forests taller than mountains, where the trees breathed like living giants. She dreamed of birds with crystal wings that rained sparks as they flew.

She dreamed of shadows with too many eyes watching her from the corners of sleep. In the morning, she told anyone who would listen. Some villagers scolded her, others begged her to stop, but more began to wonder. What if she had awakened something they had lost?

As weeks passed, whispers spread. Old songs resurfaced, fragments of lullabies that spoke of wandering stars and night journeys. People recalled faint memories—distant, like echoes—of dreams from childhood they had long dismissed as fantasy. Mothers hushed their children more firmly at bedtime, but in secret, they asked Liora what she saw. The more she dreamed, the more alive she seemed, and others envied her glow.

The council grew fearful. They met in secret, debating what to do. Some argued that Liora was a blessing, proof that the curse of silence was breaking. Others claimed she was cursed herself, a herald of ruin. Elder Carwyn reminded them of the oath their ancestors had sworn: never again to dream. For in dreaming, he said, they had once opened a door that nearly destroyed them. None outside the council knew what that oath truly meant, only that it was never to be broken.

But rumors have a way of feeding themselves. Liora’s father began to notice strange things in the house. Shadows lingering too long, reflections in water that did not match their faces. Once, he awoke to find Liora sleepwalking, her eyes wide open, glowing faintly with pale light. She whispered in a language he did not know, words that felt older than the mountains themselves. He carried her back to bed, trembling, and never told his wife.

Soon, others began to dream. It started with a boy who woke crying, claiming he had seen a tower of black stone rising from the valley floor. Then an old woman gasped in delight as she told of seeing her long-dead husband in her sleep. Then a farmer claimed he had walked through fields of fire and woke with ash on his hands. Fear spread like wildfire. The silence of sleep was broken, and there was no stopping it.

The council tried to suppress it, but dreams are not easily silenced. Each night more villagers joined Liora in visions both wondrous and terrible. Some woke smiling, others screaming. The town divided between those who embraced the return of dreams and those who called them omens of doom. Fights broke out in the market, prayers turned into arguments, and the once quiet valley rang with unrest.

Liora herself changed. She grew pale, her eyes too bright for her face. She spoke less in the day, saving her voice for the night, when she described dreams so vivid they silenced even her doubters. “They are coming,” she whispered once to her teacher.

“The ones who watched while we forgot.” No one knew what she meant. But that night, three villagers did not wake from sleep. Their faces were peaceful, almost smiling, but their hearts had stopped. Fear hardened into terror.

The council finally revealed the truth. Long ago, they confessed, Eldermere had been cursed. The people had dreamed freely, wandering through visions and marvels, until one night they dreamed too far. They touched a realm not meant for mortals, a realm of beings that fed on the minds of sleepers.

Those beings began to slip through, whispering promises, demanding worship. The ancestors, desperate, struck a bargain: they gave up dreaming forever in exchange for safety. The silence of sleep was their prison and their shield. Liora had broken it.

Panic consumed the village. Some demanded Liora be cast out, others insisted she be protected at all costs. Her parents wept, torn between fear and love. And through it all, Liora only grew calmer, as if she understood something no one else could. “They were always watching,” she said softly. “I was just the first to notice.” That night, the river that ran through Eldermere began to glow faintly, as though lit from beneath. No one slept.

The next days blurred into chaos. The dreams spread faster, stronger. No one could resist them. Villagers wandered the streets at night with eyes glazed, speaking to invisible companions. Some built strange symbols into the soil, claiming they had been shown how. Others sang songs in voices not their own. The line between dream and waking thinned until both bled into each other. Eldermere was no longer a village of silence but of madness.

And then, as suddenly as it began, Liora vanished. One morning her bed was empty, her window open, her footprints leading to the glowing river. The water swallowed her trail, leaving no sign. Her mother screamed until her voice broke. Her father collapsed in grief. But many whispered that she had not been taken, but chosen—that she had crossed fully into the realm their ancestors had once sealed away.

The glowing river faded days later. The dreams did not. Eldermere remained forever changed, its people forever caught between wonder and dread. Some embraced their visions, painting them on walls, writing them in books. Others lived in fear, never daring to close their eyes. But all agreed on one thing: Liora had awakened something that could never again be silenced.

And on nights when the mist was thick and the river hummed faintly, some swore they saw a child’s reflection in the water, her eyes bright as stars, smiling as if she knew the end of the story that no one else could tell.