The dream that returned

Michael leaned against the end of the bookshelf, arms crossed lightly, trying not to look like a man who'd forgotten how to do this ... small talk, introductions, anything outside of work and raising a child who didn't speak.

Elizabeth didn't seem in a hurry to fill the silence, which oddly comforted him.

"She's come in before?" he asked finally, nodding toward Lily, who now knelt in front of the animal section, her fingers trailing across book spines.

Elizabeth's voice was soft. "Twice now. Yesterday, and today. She kept the note I gave her."

"She keeps things that matter," Michael said, quieter than he intended. "Doesn't say much, but… you'll know if you've reached her."

Elizabeth smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I know what that's like."

Michael hesitated. "I remember you. From… before. You used to read at the school."

She nodded, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of her notebook. "Before," she repeated.

The word hung between them like a thin veil. They both understood what it meant.

Michael cleared his throat. "Your books were...are...some of Lily's favorites. The Dreamer ones."

"I haven't written in a long time."

"She still reads them."

That made her blink, slow and surprised, as if she didn't quite know what to do with that kindness.

"She's different with you," he added, nodding toward Lily. "I've seen her with teachers, counselors… even other kids. She never lets anyone close. But you..." He stopped himself.

"I didn't do anything," Elizabeth said quietly.

"Exactly," Michael replied.

She looked at him then — really looked — and something passed between them. Recognition, maybe. Or just a shared weariness.

He offered a small, almost self-conscious smile. "Michael. I probably should've said that earlier."

"Elizabeth," she replied.

From the shelves, Lily looked over her shoulder at them. She didn't smile, but her eyes softened. Then, she returned to her quiet search.

Mary, the store owner, peered over a tower of newly donated books. She was warm in the way cinnamon is warm ... comforting but sharp when you least expect it.

"You really should give us a new collection, Lizzy. "

Elizabeth offered a tired smile. That was all she had in her these days ; recycled expressions and borrowed calm.

"Hey," Mary called from the donation bin. "This one's got your name on it."

Elizabeth stood. "What do you mean?"

Mary held up a book with a hand-drawn cover. Not glossy. Not published. Just ink, paper, and pain. The title read: The Last Dreamer.

Elizabeth's breath hitched. Her fingers trembled as she took the worn copy. She flipped through the pages she hadn't seen in five years — her handwriting, Jeremy's drawings, her voice. The manuscript she never finished.

She closed it carefully, as if afraid it would shatter.

"You okay?" Michael softly whispered.

Elizabeth nodded and placed it beneath the counter. "I never finished it," she whispered.

"Looks like it came back to finish you," Mary said gently.

Elizabeth didn't respond. But in the quiet between them, something stirred.

Not hope. Not yet.

But maybe… the memory of it.

"Wait" Michael said as he darted towards a new truck blinging under the sun. In his hands was a worn copy of a book. The one he always read Lily during a storm.

He approached the counter and gently placed the book down. One of hers — The Dreamer kinght. Out of print, well-worn, but unmistakably hers.

"I think this belongs to you," he said.

Her heart stuttered. She looked at the cover, then back at him. "Where did you get this?"

"Thrift store. She wouldn't let go of it."

He motioned to his girl. Lily — she would learn of her name later.

The little girl who seemed engroseed with the animal collections stared up at her, eyes huge and silent. Then, barely visible, she signed:

"Are you the Dream Lady?"

Elizabeth's chest tightened. She knelt slowly. "I used to be."

Lily nodded solemnly and signed again. "I dreamed of you."

Michael crouched beside her. "She hasn't spoken a word in three years. But last night. She tried to."

"Would you be generous to her?"

Elizabeth stood too quickly. "I don't do signings, or appearances. Or… stories. I'm sorry."

Michael held up a hand. "I'm not here for that. I just—"

He looked at Lily, then back at Elizabeth. "She's been having nightmares. Your book helped. I thought maybe… if there were more stories…"

"There aren't," Elizabeth said, sharper than she meant.

Silence stretched between them. Lily lowered her head.

Elizabeth softened. "I'm not who I used to be."

"None of us are," Michael said quietly. "But sometimes… we still matter to someone."

He grabbed Lily and turned to leave. Lily looked back, her hand raised in a small wave. Eyes twinkling like a star.

Elizabeth didn't wave back.

The walk home felt different this time. Not shorter, not longer ... just not as heavy.

Elizabeth carried her notebook in one hand and nothing in the other, fingers brushing against the hem of her coat.

The afternoon light filtered through the trees in shifting gold ribbons. Somewhere behind her, a bird sang too cheerfully for mid-autumn.

She'd met people before. Spoken to well-meaning strangers. Neighbors with soft condolences. Readers with well-worn books they wanted signed.

But this was different.

Michael hadn't offered anything. He hadn't told her how strong she was, or how sorry he felt. He had just… been there. The way some people sit beside a sleeping animal, knowing comfort lies in silence.

And Lily — quiet, unreadable Lily — had reached for her hand. Just once. But it was enough to echo.

Inside the cottage, she didn't turn on the lights. She dropped her coat over the old chair, opened her notebook, and looked at the page she'd written the day before.

The story was still there.

Waiting.

That night, she sat with a blank page in her lap.

And for the first time in years… she picked up a pen

She added one line beneath it.

> "She didn't know it yet, but the dream had begun to return."

She set down the pen. Not finished. But started.

For Lily.

The girl who wasn't broke her silence, but has spoken to her heart in a voice louder than the rumble of a thunder.

She wrote.