The dream that returned

The next morning, when Elizabeth stepped into the bookstore, Lily wasn't there.

The little corner where she had sat for two days now was undisturbed. No picture books laid open, no coat folded on the chair. Just stillness, like the hush after someone whispers a secret and walks away.

Elizabeth didn't know why her chest ached. She hadn't expected her to be there. Had no right to feel that way. But still...

She walked the aisle once, then twice. Paused at the spot where Lily had first looked up at her. Ran her fingers along the rough edge of the shelf.

Then something caught her eye.

Tucked between the books; a folded sheet of paper.

Elizabeth hesitated, then pulled it free. Pale green stationery it was, a soft crayon outline of a star drawn in the corner.

Inside, blocky, uneven handwriting in pencil:

"You made the dreams feel real again. I want to come back. Can I?"

There was no name. But there didn't have to be.

Elizabeth smiled — not the wide kind. The kind that crept in from somewhere very deep and long-buried.

She slipped the note into her pocket like a promise.

Elizabeth sat on the floor of the children's section, her notebook on her knees, the worn paper Lily had left tucked just beneath her palm.

The sentence repeated in her head like a heartbeat:

"You made the dreams feel real again."

A child had written that. But it felt like something sacred.

She flipped open to a blank page and wrote without overthinking:

>"You may always return.

Some doors are made of wood.

Some are made of pages.

And some are made of people who remember what it means to dream."

She paused, then drew a tiny silver crescent moon in the corner, just like Jeremy used to sketch in the margins of their stories.

Elizabeth folded the note carefully and tucked it into the shelf where she'd found Lily's message — like passing a torch, but gentler.

"You came for the little one, didn't you?" Mary whom she hadn't noticed stirred from her little slumber as her gaze found Elizabeth trance-like. Something you'd see when someone seemed dumbstruck.

Elizabeth flashed a brief smile.

Then she stood, notebook under her arm, and headed for the door, heart steadier than it had been in years.

She stopped by the grocery store. Picked fruits, cookies and a bottle of red wine. She also picked a fresh batch of teas, some cooking condiments, cleaning supplies too.

As she walked past the bakery, freshly oven baked breads seemed to hypnotise her. She made a stop for it.

She picked up a few. She made a mental note to send some to Mrs Kettler. Mrs Kettler, the good neighbour.

Elizabeth looked over the croissant shelves. Especially the section with chocolate ones. She took some. One for the house; for morning teas or dessert, one for the beach.

The sea seemed to whisper her name.

All the grocery shopping left her weary. So weary, she picked up food and no necessity. No blankets. No flannels. No shawls for defense against the crispy wind.

Her spread of food laid in it's baskets. The autumn wind did its thing.

(Michael's POV)

Michael spotted her just past the curve of the coastal path, where the gravel gave way to sand and tide-carved stone.

Elizabeth stood barefoot, boots in one hand, basket in the other,eyes on the sea. A breeze teased strands of hair loose around her face. She looked both perfectly still and entirely in motion.

He hadn't meant to walk that way, but Lily was at her speech therapy session — a routine they both pretended mattered less than it did — and the path was quiet. Safe.

He could've kept walking. Could've turned around. But something kept him moving forward.

She looked up as he approached, then down again to the sea, as if embarrassed by being seen.

He stopped a few feet away. Close enough for the wind to carry his voice, soft and careful.

"She left a note, didn't she?"

Elizabeth turned, surprised.

"How did you know?"

"She tells me about things," he said, smiling faintly. "Not with words. But I've learned to read between the spaces."

"She said she wanted to come back," Elizabeth said, her voice nearly carried away by the wind. "She said the dreams feel real again."

Michael nodded, looking out at the water now too.

"Then you've already done something none of us could."

Elizabeth shook her head. "I didn't do anything."

"You didn't try to fix her," he said. "You just… saw her."

"She sees you."

They stood in silence for a while, the kind of silence that wasn't empty, but shared.

Michael let his shoulders drop a little, the way he only did when he wasn't guarding something.

"She hasn't smiled in years, Elizabeth. Not like that."

She swallowed.

"Really? Why? What exactly happened?"

"She was kidnapped by her nanny. The one woman she trusted and cared for."

He shifted on his feet. Swallowed hard, then continued.

"You see, I'm a carpenter and part-time delivery driver."

His well-tanned face darkened. " I used to think it was enough providing for her. For us."

"Food on our table. Shelter over our head. Enough savings for emergencies. Enough to pay a nanny. A woman to take care of her while I focus on providing. "

His shoulders slumped as the guilt hit him. A sob seemed to choke his windpipe. "I was wrong."

"My little girl didn't deserve to suffer as she did. I was wrong."

Elizabeth's eyes misted, but she offered no words. No consolation or admonishing. She let him finish.

Michael looked at her then ... really looked ... and said, "You write stories that remember people. Even when they forget themselves."

"You're my Lily's messiah. You did what I couldn't accomplish in three years."

The breeze picked up, carrying gull cries and salt air.

He closed the space between them. Sat carefully close... like he belonged at her side.

Painfully close she perceived the faint smell of pine and sandalwood.

Her body reacted embarrassedly. He seemed to realise her discomfort. Scratched his scalp awkwardly and made more space a bit from her.

He reached for the scarf around his neck and held it like a peace offering. Hesitantly, his fingers floated towards her. The pause seemed to proclaim his fingers were unsure of how to behave. He tied it in robotic motion.

And still, neither of them walked away.

The silence dissolved into a mist.