Chapter 1: The Song That Wasn’t There
Reginald T. Peabody had always considered himself an unremarkable man with unremarkable dreams, which was why the presence of a song in his head that nobody else could hear was beginning to concern him. Not just any song, mind you, but the kind of melody that tickled the inside of your ear, tiptoed down your spine, and made you want to tap-dance in the post office queue, which was exactly what he did on the third Monday of May, much to Mrs. Strunkle’s dismay.
The trouble with the song was that it seemed so familiar, yet every time he tried to hum it out loud, the tune evaporated into a mist of forgotten notes and half-remembered harmonies. He would stand, mouth open, in front of his bathroom mirror, and out would come nothing but a bewildered croak. His cat, Tuppence, seemed to be the only living creature impressed by this performance, but Reginald suspected it was more to do with the erratic movement of his Adam’s apple than his musical prowess.
The song haunted him in the oddest moments—while brushing his teeth, waiting for the kettle to boil, or staring into the fluorescent depths of the office vending machine. It was there, hovering tantalizingly out of reach, the lyrical equivalent of forgetting why you walked into a room. He’d attempted everything: whistling, humming, even yodeling once (which frightened Mrs. Strunkle’s poodle and resulted in a sternly-worded note on his door).
After a week of this auditory ghost, Reginald decided drastic measures were in order. He posted a query to NotAtAllSuspiciousDreams.net, an online forum for those plagued by oddities of the subconscious, hoping for advice or at least some consolation that he hadn’t gone entirely mad.
Chapter 2: The Forum of the Odd
Reginald’s post, entitled “Can anyone else hear the song that isn’t there?” was met with an immediate flurry of responses, ranging from supportive to suspiciously poetic. The first response came from “BananaFiend99,” who wrote, “I once heard a symphony in my refrigerator, turned out to be a raccoon. Maybe check your appliances.” The second, more hopeful, came from “LucidityAndLattes,” who claimed that forgotten dreams often left behind musical echoes that only the truly imaginative could hear.
Fascinated, Reginald dove into the forum’s threads. There were tales of tune-hunters, melody-mappers, and one particularly insistent user who claimed to have written down every song they ever dreamed, though when pressed for a recording, only sent a link to a video of someone gargling mouthwash to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”
Among the suggestions, Reginald found a message from “DreamsOfYore,” who recommended he visit Madame Von Hoot, Dream Whisperer and professional tea-leaf misinterpreter. She was, according to the forum, the leading authority in extracting dreams from the subconscious and, for a modest fee, would throw in a free biscuit.
Motivated by equal parts desperation and curiosity (and, admittedly, a fondness for biscuits), Reginald scheduled an appointment.
Chapter 3: Madame Von Hoot’s Dreamatorium
Madame Von Hoot’s Dreamatorium was wedged between a launderette and a shop that exclusively sold novelty socks. The sign, painted in swirling gold letters, promised “Unveiling the Unconscious Since Tuesday.” The smell of incense and slightly burnt toast permeated the air as Reginald entered, greeted by a cloud of purple smoke and a parrot that introduced itself as Nigel, then immediately began reciting the ingredients to a Victoria Sponge.
The waiting room was decorated in what Reginald could only describe as “Victorian Bohemian with a touch of ‘I ran out of shelf space.’” Glittering crystals hung from every available light fixture, and dreamcatchers festooned the ceiling like a flock of psychedelic jellyfish.
Madame Von Hoot herself was a vision in paisley, with a hat that would have made a peacock weep in envy. She peered at him over glasses that magnified her eyes to the size of tea saucers.
Ah, you seek the Song of Forgotten Dreams, she declared, waving a feather duster at his aura. Most treacherous! Most tantalizing! Sit, and let us peer into the murky depths of your unconscious mind! Also, would you prefer Earl Grey or Peppermint?
Reginald, feeling slightly as though he had wandered into an amateur production of “Macbeth: The Musical,” awkwardly chose Peppermint and sat as instructed. Madame Von Hoot instructed him to close his eyes, breathe deeply, and think about the song as hard as he could.
What do you feel? she intoned, voice thick with mystery (and possibly biscuit crumbs).
Reginald concentrated. He felt a flutter, a tingle, and then—
Absolutely nothing.
Reginald opened one eye. Is it working? he asked.
Madame Von Hoot considered, stirring her tea thoughtfully. Sometimes, to find what is forgotten, you must unforget something else. Tell me, what did you dream about last Tuesday?
Reginald frowned. He rarely remembered his dreams. Probably something about being late for work and wearing only one shoe.
Madame Von Hoot nodded sagely. Classic. The dream is hiding beneath the mundane! You must seek your song where the socks go when the washing machine devours them.
Reginald’s confusion must have shown, because Madame Von Hoot scribbled something on a card and pressed it into his hand. If the song will not come to you, you must go to the song. Try the Dreamers’ Club, she whispered, with all the air of someone bestowing the key to a secret realm. Also, they have excellent scones.
Chapter 4: The Dreamers’ Club
The Dreamers’ Club met every Thursday in the back room of The Drowsy Duck, a pub renowned for its selection of craft ales and its chronic inability to remember anyone’s name correctly. Reginald arrived just in time to be greeted as “Ronald Peachbloom” by the pub’s owner, a man with the memory of a goldfish and the mustache of a walrus.
The club consisted of an eclectic assortment of members: poets who wrote only in palindrome, an accountant who dreamed exclusively in spreadsheets, and a man named Colin who claimed to have invented a device to record dreams but had misplaced it somewhere between his sock drawer and the Bermuda Triangle.
The evening’s activities involved sharing the previous week’s most memorable dreams, followed by a round of “Dream Charades,” which—due to the nature of dreams—resulted in some of the most confusing pantomimes Reginald had ever witnessed.
When it was his turn, Reginald hesitantly described the elusive song haunting him. The room fell silent, except for the sound of Colin rummaging through his pockets for a lost biscuit.
A hush fell. The club’s president, Miss Damson Plumtree, leaned forward, her eyes alight with excitement. The Song of Forgotten Dreams! she declared. It’s a legend among dreamers! They say it’s the melody that binds together every forgotten hope, every misplaced wish, every what-if and maybe.
Reginald, both flattered and alarmed, inquired what one was supposed to do with such a song.
Why, you must remember it, of course! Only then can you release its power! Miss Plumtree declared. But beware—the path to memory is fraught with perils! You might have to face your most embarrassing childhood moment!
Reginald shuddered. He had not forgotten the incident with the lemon meringue at Aunt Agatha’s.
Colin, having finally located his biscuit (it had been in his shoe), offered to let Reginald try his “dreamograph,” a battered device resembling a cross between a toaster and a gramophone. All you have to do is nap for a bit while wearing these, he said, handing over a pair of earmuffs adorned with rainbow-colored pipe cleaners.
Reginald, never one to refuse a nap or the prospect of discovering a forgotten song, reclined in the club’s only armchair and donned the earmuffs.
Chapter 5: The Dreamlogical Adventure
The moment Reginald closed his eyes, the room melted away, and he found himself standing in a landscape suspiciously reminiscent of the cover art from a 1970s prog rock album. Staircases twisted into the sky, clocks dripped over clouds, and somewhere in the distance, a choir of hedgehogs sang in unison.
He wandered through fields of multicolored grass, past trees that grew teapots instead of fruit. There, in the center of a spiraling garden path, stood the Song: a peculiar, shimmering creature made entirely of notes and rests, flitting from flower to flower, leaving behind trails of forgotten lyrics.
Reginald chased after it, but the Song darted away, giggling in a voice suspiciously like Mrs. Strunkle’s. Every time he drew near, the Song would tumble into a puddle of memories—his first bicycle ride, his disastrous attempt at ballroom dance, the time he ate an entire box of Turkish delight and dreamed he was a sultan.
The Song paused atop a toadstool and finally addressed him. If you wish to remember me, you must trade a memory you cherish. The rules of dreams are cruel but fair. What will you give up to know my tune?
Reginald pondered. He thought of his favorite memories: the summer he spent reading detective novels under a willow tree, the taste of his grandmother’s apricot jam, the time Tuppence curled in his lap and purred so loudly the neighbors complained.
He finally chose one—a memory of the day he won third place in a school painting contest, a memory sweet but not essential. The Song accepted, absorbing the memory with a pop, and in return, bestowed upon him a single, crystalline note.
As Reginald reached out to grasp it, the dream began to unravel, and he woke to the sound of applause, Colin declaring that the dreamograph had “never smoked quite so much before.”
Reginald sat up, the note echoing in his mind—a single, perfect pitch, tantalizingly close to a melody.
Chapter 6: The Quest for the Rest
Flush with excitement and a mild headache, Reginald explained his dream to the club. Miss Plumtree was ecstatic. You have the first Note! The rest will come if you continue to dream deeply and bravely.
Feeling as though he were living a very peculiar fairy tale, Reginald began a routine of deliberate napping, assisted by Colin’s ever-evolving dreamograph and a revolving selection of club-provided snacks. Each dream yielded a new note, sometimes at the cost of a memory—a forgotten birthday party, the name of a primary school teacher, the feeling of his favorite jumper.
Yet, as the melody began to take shape, Reginald found himself humming snatches of it during the day. It was infectious; soon, others in the club began hearing it too—a tune just on the edge of recall, as shimmering and elusive as a soap bubble.
The tune spread, carried by word of mouth and errant whistling, until even Mrs. Strunkle found herself humming it while trimming her begonias. The post office queue became a cacophony of would-be choristers. The poodle, for reasons unknown, took up the harmonica.
Reginald, meanwhile, began to worry. The more he remembered the song, the more he forgot other things. He mislaid his keys, his umbrella, and on one occasion, his trousers (thankfully found by the poodle, who returned them in exchange for a biscuit).
He sought Madame Von Hoot’s counsel once again, hoping for advice or possibly a more robust brand of biscuit.
Chapter 7: The Scone of Destiny
Madame Von Hoot, deep in a trance and halfway through a rather large scone, considered Reginald’s predicament. Every dream reclaimed must leave space, she said. Otherwise, you’d burst from all the living, waking, and remembering.
Reginald chewed this over (along with a jammy scone). Was it worth it, to remember the song if it meant forgetting other things?
Madame Von Hoot nodded, crumbs cascading down her paisley shawl. The Song is not just for you, dear boy. Songs are meant to be sung, dreams to be shared. Perhaps, once you remember it fully, you’ll find you’ve traded up.
With this slightly mystical (and sticky) encouragement, Reginald set out to recover the final notes of the Song.
Chapter 8: The Day the Song Was Heard
On a Saturday awash with rain and optimism, the Dreamers’ Club convened for the annual Dream Fête, a celebration involving three-legged races, competitive punning, and an inexplicable abundance of quiche. Reginald, now in possession of nearly the whole melody, was persuaded to “perform” the Song for the assembled dreamers.
He took his place on the makeshift stage, surrounded by bunting and a suspiciously enthusiastic group of hedgehogs. He closed his eyes, summoned the notes from the depths of his mind, and began to sing.
At first, only a few recognized the tune—a flicker of forgotten joy, a memory of a long-lost hope. But as Reginald continued, the Song grew, swelling and spiraling through the room, weaving through each dreamer’s mind, rekindling old ambitions and childhood wishes.
Miss Plumtree wept openly, proclaiming it reminded her of her first ever successful soufflé. Colin, caught up in the moment, attempted to waltz with the dreamograph (which malfunctioned and began playing “Flight of the Bumblebee” in Morse code).
The Song was magic—not the kind that turned frogs into princes, but the quieter sort that reminded people of the things they once wanted, the possibilities just out of reach. Laughter bubbled up, dreams were shared, and for one glorious afternoon, everyone felt a little more hopeful.
Chapter 9: The Price of Memory
In the days that followed, Reginald found himself lighter, as if he’d set down a heavy bag he hadn’t realized he was carrying. He’d forgotten a few trivial things—how to make a perfect cup of tea, the lyrics to an advertising jingle—but gained something rarer: a sense that he was part of a larger, ongoing melody.
People came to him, asking about the Song, wanting to hear it, to remember their own forgotten dreams. The Dreamers’ Club became a hub for hopeful dreamers, would-be inventors, and those simply looking for a biscuit and a bit of company.
Mrs. Strunkle took up the ukulele. The poodle formed a jazz trio. Even Tuppence, inspired by the general spirit of possibility, made a valiant (if ultimately unsuccessful) attempt at synchronized swimming in the bathtub.
Chapter 10: The Chorus of New Dreams
The Song of Forgotten Dreams, once elusive, became a community anthem. Each person who heard it remembered a fragment of their own lost hopes, stitching them together into new ambitions and wild, improbable plans.
Reginald, now officially “Keeper of the Tune” (an honorific bestowed by Miss Plumtree with much ceremony and a sash made from recycled bunting), watched as the Song took on a life of its own. New verses emerged, woven from everyone’s stories, until there was no longer a single song, but a chorus of hope.
He still forgot things now and then—where he left his hat, the exact location of his favorite mug—but it didn’t bother him. The important memories, the ones that lifted him and those around him, stayed.
And so, in a small town where dreams and daylight mingled, Reginald Peabody became known as the man who sang the tune that everyone almost remembered, and in doing so, helped them remember themselves.
The Song of Forgotten Dreams went on, weaving through the lives of all it touched, as whisper-light and indelible as laughter shared with friends.
And, in the end, Reginald realized that the melody was less about what had been forgotten, and more about the joy of discovering what could still be dreamed.
The End.