The Invitation

The dream began on a rainy night.

I stood in a narrow alley lined with glistening cobblestones. A single street lantern cast a warm circle of light into the darkness. Beneath it lay two wooden barrels on their sides, resting side by side as though they had been placed there intentionally. I believed they were whiskey or rum barrels.

Above them appeared the year 1812. Beneath the date was a short paragraph, but before I could read it, the words slipped away.

The entire scene carried a deep purple energy. It wasn't simply a color. The place itself seemed to glow with it, quiet, mysterious, and alive.

Then I heard a woman's voice.

"He didn't just describe you. He described me too."

The scene changed.

I found myself sorting through a stack of mail. Among the envelopes was one unlike the others. It was small and dark green with delicate gold filigree around its edges. I knew it was an invitation, though I never discovered what I had been invited to.

Then I woke.

The room was filled with the unmistakable scent of burning wood and smoke. It was so strong that I lay still for a moment, wondering where it was coming from. Within a minute or so, the smell faded away.

What I Wonder

Some dreams disappear before breakfast. Others stay with us.

I don't know why the year 1812 appeared so clearly. I don't know who the woman was or who she meant by "he." I don't know what the invitation was for, or why the scene carried such a vivid purple presence.

Perhaps the answers will come. Perhaps they won't.

For now, I've simply recorded the dream exactly as I remember it, trusting that not every mystery needs to be solved the moment it arrives.