Chapter 1: The Sound of Distant Echoes
When the Lament first began, few noticed. It was a whisper at the edge of sleep, a gentle tug at the mind’s periphery, fading like morning mist at dawn. But as the weeks dragged on, it grew louder, more insistent—a sorrowful hum echoing in every corner of the city of Lyrae. Some called it the Mourning Song, others, the Forgotten’s Cry. To Tessa Marlin, it was a familiar ache, a melody she felt she’d known her entire life.
Lyrae was a city of glass and memory. Towering spires rose above the clouds, their translucence refracting the building light of the twin suns. At street level, winding lanes bustled with traders and travelers from the farthest reaches of the Terran Expanse. But in the shadowed corners, an unspoken dread lingered. Dreams, once vivid and bright, were vanishing. Children awoke unable to recall the stories spun by their sleeping minds. Artists stared blankly at canvases, their imaginations bereft. It was as if the world’s collective subconscious was draining away, leaving only an aching void.
Tessa, a Dreamkeeper by trade, felt the loss more keenly than most. Her job was to record and preserve the most precious dreams of Lyrae’s citizens, archiving them in the Grand Hall of Reverie. For generations, Dreamkeepers had been the stewards of hopes, fears, and wonders too fragile for waking hours. Now, as the Lament deepened, Tessa found her archive growing hollow. The dreams she captured shimmered with emptiness, like glass shells with nothing inside.
One evening, as the city’s lights flickered on and the indigo dusk swallowed the last glow of the suns, Tessa walked the emptying streets. The Lament was a low thrum in her chest, nearly indistinguishable from her own heartbeat, yet undeniably alien. She paused before the statue of Lysandra, the first Dreamkeeper, her features carved in tranquil contemplation. Tessa pressed her palm to the cold stone, seeking solace, but found none. The statue offered only silence—and in that silence, the seed of determination began to sprout.
Something was stealing the dreams of Lyrae, and Tessa would find out what.
Chapter 2: The Archive and the Unseen
The Grand Hall of Reverie stood at the city’s heart, its crystalline dome sparkling beneath the dawn. Inside, the air shimmered with the energy of a million captured dreams. Rows of memory spheres, each glowing with its own spectral hue, floated gently along conduits of light. Tessa moved among them, her Dreamkeeper’s staff in hand, scanning for any sign of the malaise that plagued her city.
She paused beside a sphere marked with a blue glyph—the dream of a child named Halin. It should have sung with the laughter of a soaring flight across golden fields, but as Tessa touched it, she felt only cold emptiness. She frowned, whispering a word of opening, and the sphere unfolded its contents into her mind.
Nothing. A void, where once there had been color and joy.
She turned to her mentor, Elder Corvin, who watched her with tired eyes from beneath a cascade of silver hair. He had tried to comfort her, telling her that dreams ebbed and flowed with the turning of the ages. But she saw the fear in his gaze now, the tremor in the hand that once held the staff steady.
Corvin, she said quietly, it’s getting worse. I can feel the loss growing. Even the oldest dreams are becoming faint.
Corvin sighed, his voice barely above a whisper. I know, Tessa. I feel it too. The Council has sent inquiries to the Seers of Orion and the Librarians of Caelum, but they have found no cause. Perhaps it is something beyond our understanding—a change in the fabric of dream itself.
Tessa shook her head. I don’t believe that. Dreams don’t vanish without reason. Something is taking them. I dream of shadows at the edge of my mind—something watching, waiting. Have you ever heard of this before?
Corvin hesitated. In all my years, nothing like this has happened. But there are legends—old tales of the Mara, entities that feed on dreams. I always thought them mere stories for frightened children.
Tessa clenched her fist around the staff. Stories or not, I have to try. We can’t let the Lament consume us. Will you help me?
Corvin nodded, though despair clung to his smile. I will do what I can, child. But be wary—the realm of dreams is vast and perilous. Even Dreamkeepers can be lost within it.
With a deep breath, Tessa resolved to enter the Dreamways that night, risking everything on a journey few returned from. She would find the source of the Lament, or perish in the forgetting.
Chapter 3: The Dreamways Beckon
Tessa prepared for the journey with ritual and resolve. She donned her Dreamkeeper’s robes, stitched with sigils of protection, and drank the draught of starroot tea that would open her mind to the Dreamways. Corvin stood beside her at the threshold, offering a final blessing.
May the light of memory guide you, and may you return whole.
As Tessa lay upon the Dreamkeeper’s dais, the world receded. Her body grew weightless, her senses expanding beyond flesh and bone. She felt herself slipping into the Dreamways—a vast, shifting realm where thought and memory wove the very fabric of reality. Colors blazed without name, and landscapes twisted in impossible geometries. Here, the dreams of Lyrae drifted like luminous fish in an endless sea.
Tessa moved through the Dreamways with practiced ease, her staff casting a gentle light. At first, she saw only familiar sights—the playgrounds of childhood dreamers, the gardens of hope, the markets where wishes bartered for fears. But as she ventured deeper, the scenery changed. Dreams faded, their colors bleeding to gray. The air grew cold, and the Lament became a physical weight, pressing against her mind.
She pressed onward, past crumbling memory-palaces and rivers of lost laughter. Shadows flitted at the edge of vision—insubstantial, but hungry. Tessa’s heart pounded as she sensed she was being watched.
Then, in a clearing of swirling mist, she saw it: a figure cloaked in darkness, its face a swirling void. It stood among the shattered remains of a thousand dreams, sifting through them as a scavenger sorts refuse.
Who are you? Tessa demanded, her voice unwavering, though her knees threatened to buckle.
The shadow turned, its eyes glowing with stolen light. The Lament is not mine alone, Dreamkeeper. It is the sorrow of all that is forgotten. I am only its voice.
What are you doing to my city?
I am the Shepherd of Lost Dreams. I gather what you cast away, what you fear to remember. You have built a world on forgetting, and now your dreams come to me.
Tessa gripped her staff tighter. No. We cherish our dreams. We honor them.
The Shepherd’s laugh was like the shattering of glass. You honor what is bright and beautiful. But what of the dreams you abandon, the ones you choose not to remember? Your fears, your regrets, your unspoken desires? They fester in the corners of your mind, and they feed me. The Lament is not a theft, Dreamkeeper. It is a reckoning.
Tessa felt a chill deeper than fear. If that was true, the city itself was complicit in its undoing. But she could not accept it—not without a fight.
Then let me see, she challenged. Show me the dreams we have forgotten. Let me understand.
The Shepherd smiled, and the world dissolved around her.
Chapter 4: The Gallery of the Lost
When Tessa’s senses returned, she was standing in a vast gallery. The walls stretched to infinity, lined with countless doors. Behind each one, a forgotten dream pulsed, faint but insistent. The air hummed with longing and sorrow. The Shepherd drifted beside her, its form half-glimpsed in the shifting gloom.
This is the Gallery of the Lost, it intoned. The dreams you abandoned. Each door holds a memory that no longer belongs to the waking world. Will you look, Dreamkeeper? Will you face what has been forgotten?
Tessa steeled herself. She chose a door—simple, painted blue, with a child’s handprint upon it. She pressed her palm to the surface, and it swung open.
She was seven years old again, standing in a garden beneath a sky bruised purple with dusk. Her father’s arms were around her, strong and safe. The scent of jasmine filled the air. But as she reached for him, he dissolved, becoming mist and shadow. She remembered now—this had been the night before he vanished, lost to the war that ravaged the outer colonies. She had tried to forget, to bury the pain beneath layers of brighter dreams.
She staggered back, heart pounding. The Shepherd watched her with pitiless eyes.
Another door. This one, cracked and splintered, opened onto a memory of failure. She saw herself as a young Dreamkeeper, failing to save a friend from the grip of nightmare. The guilt gnawed at her, raw and unhealed. She slammed the door shut, tears streaming down her face.
Again and again, Tessa opened doors, confronting pain, regret, shame—the detritus of a life spent chasing the light and ignoring the shadow. With each memory faced, the Lament grew quieter, its sorrow lessening, as if acknowledging her willingness to remember.
The Shepherd spoke, its voice softer now. You see, Dreamkeeper. To dream is to risk pain, to carry burdens as well as joy. When you abandon your shadow, you weaken the whole. The Lament is the price of forgetting.
Tessa knelt on the cold floor, exhausted. What can I do? How do I heal my city?
Remember. Teach them to remember. Only by embracing the forgotten can you restore what has been lost.
Chapter 5: Return and Awakening
Tessa awoke with a gasp, the Dreamways dissolving into the gentle light of dawn. Corvin was there, waiting, relief etched into every line of his face. She sat up, head spinning with the weight of revelation. The Lament was not an external curse—it was the collective sorrow of an entire city, the result of dreams abandoned and memories repressed.
She gathered the Dreamkeepers, sharing her journey and what she had learned. At first, they resisted. Who would wish to relive pain? Why dig up old wounds? But as she spoke, Tessa saw understanding blossom in their eyes. The only way forward was through.
That day, Tessa led Lyrae in a new ritual. Instead of archiving only the brightest dreams, they opened the Hall to memories of all kinds. Citizens came, sharing both joy and sorrow. Old wounds were aired, confessions made, regrets acknowledged. The Dreamkeepers recorded each dream, no matter how dark, weaving them into the city’s tapestry.
Slowly, the Lament began to fade. The song of sorrow transformed, becoming a hymn of remembrance—a chorus of voices, each one carrying its own truth. The dreams returned, richer and deeper than before, their light brighter for having embraced the shadow.
Tessa watched as the city healed, her heart lighter than it had been in years. She thanked the Shepherd of Lost Dreams, wherever it resided, for forcing Lyrae to remember.
She knew the danger would remain—the temptation to forget, to cast aside what hurt. But now, Lyrae had learned that true dreams could only flourish in the fertile soil of memory, both joyful and sorrowful. The city would remember, and in remembering, it would endure.
Chapter 6: The Shepherd’s Gift
In the weeks that followed, Tessa found herself returning to the edges of the Dreamways, seeking the presence of the Shepherd. She brought with her not only her own memories but those entrusted to her by others—the father mourning a lost child, the artist who feared her talent had faded, the elder who regretted words never spoken. Each time, she offered them to the Gallery of the Lost, facing their pain without shame.
The Shepherd appeared seldom, its form growing less menacing with each meeting. You understand now, it whispered. To be whole, you must embrace the forgotten.
Tessa bowed her head. I do. Can you return what was lost?
Only you can do that, Dreamkeeper. I am but a reflection of your city’s heart. When you remember, I am no longer needed.
With a gesture, the Shepherd opened a final door. Inside, Tessa saw not a single memory, but a weaving—a tapestry of all the dreams she and her city had reclaimed. Joy and sorrow intertwined, pain and hope forming a pattern of breathtaking beauty. The tapestry shimmered, alive with possibility.
This is your legacy, the Shepherd intoned. Guard it well. Teach others to cherish every dream, no matter how small or painful.
With that, the Shepherd faded, its voice echoing one last time. The Lament is ended. The song of remembrance begins.
Chapter 7: New Dawn
In time, Lyrae became renowned as the City of Remembrance. Travelers came from across the stars, drawn by tales of a place where every dream was honored. The Grand Hall of Reverie welcomed all—no longer a vault of bright illusions, but a sanctuary for the full spectrum of human experience.
Tessa, now the Elder Dreamkeeper, oversaw the archive with humility and gratitude. She trained a new generation, teaching them not only to record dreams, but to guide dreamers through their own shadows. She watched with pride as the city flourished, its people stronger for having faced their past.
On quiet evenings, Tessa wandered the streets, listening for echoes of the Lament. Instead, she heard laughter, music, the vibrant hum of life lived honestly. There were still sorrows, still regrets—but they were no longer buried. Each was acknowledged, woven into the city’s collective memory.
And in her heart, Tessa carried the lesson given by the Shepherd: that to forget is to diminish, and to remember is to heal. As she gazed upon the spires of glass and light, she knew Lyrae would endure—not in spite of its forgotten dreams, but because it had reclaimed them.
The song of the city was richer now, its melody soaring into the night. The Lament had become a hymn of hope, a promise that nothing truly precious is ever lost, so long as it is remembered.
And thus, the City of Remembrance flourished, its people dreaming boldly, unafraid of the shadows—each dream cherished, each sorrow honored, and none ever truly forgotten.