The dream didn't hit all at once.
Alan didn't remember falling asleep; he only felt the world slow down, thicken, as if the air itself had turned into water. When he opened his eyes, sound was the first thing to envelop him: the constant creak of wood, the deep murmur of the ocean, and the whistle of wind slipping through taut ropes.
He was standing on the deck of an old ship.
He didn't know how he knew, but he just did. The wood beneath his feet was worn by years of salt and endless voyages; the enormous sails billowed with a solemn rhythm, like giant lungs breathing in time with the sea. The sky was an impossible blue, too clean to be real.
And then he saw her.
Sitting on the railing, back to him, was the woman.
She wore a deep blue dress of heavy fabric, draping around her with an elegance from another era. She didn't seem to notice him.
Her hands rested lightly on the wood, relaxed, as she gazed at the horizon—as if there, where the sky kissed the sea, something was waiting for her alone.
Alan wanted to speak.
He wanted to move.
He couldn't.
It wasn't his body there, but something deeper: his consciousness. A spectator trapped in a scene that didn't belong to him.
"Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong place," she said suddenly, her voice serene and distant, as if speaking more to the wind than anyone else. "If I were a bird… I would have learned to fly before learning to obey."
Her voice didn't tremble. There was no sadness. Only a deep, ancient longing.
Alan felt a strange tug in his chest.
He didn't know why her words hurt.
She moved her feet slightly, swaying them over the void, as if height didn't exist. The blue dress fluttered in the wind, brushing the deck with a soft, intimate sound.
"Everything here feels so… narrow," she continued. "Decisions, paths, even silences. Everything is decided before you can even think."
The ship creaked more loudly, as if responding to her words.
She tilted her head toward the sky, letting the sun bathe her face—still invisible to Alan—and closed her eyes for a moment.
"Up there, there are no crowns," she said. "No names, no imposed promises. Only wings… and direction."
Alan felt a pull in his stomach.
The sea stretched endlessly before her, and for the first time, he realized he wasn't looking at a landscape—he was looking at a boundary.
She lowered her feet and turned slightly, resting her back against the railing. She still didn't look at him. She still didn't see him.
"But birds always return," added a male voice.
Alan shivered.
The voice was firm, calm… and terrifyingly familiar. He hadn't heard it from outside; he recognized it from within. It was his voice. Or it had been.
The blonde woman's fingers clenched tightly around the wood.
"That's what scares me most."
The wind shifted.
Alan wanted to tell her that fleeing wasn't cowardice.
That staying wasn't courage either.
That no one should bear a destiny they never chose.
But the memory wasn't his.
The scene continued without him.
The woman opened her eyes and turned back to the horizon, as if the conversation were over, as if those words had been spoken too many times… in too many lives.
"Flying doesn't mean escaping," the male voice continued, and Alan began to accept that somehow, it was his own. "Sometimes it just means changing cages."
She gave a faint smile, a brief gesture that the wind almost carried away.
"That's what someone who's never wanted to jump would say."
"Or someone who already has—and learned that fear doesn't stay behind," the man replied.
The wind stirred her blue dress, and for a second, it seemed the sea itself leaned in to listen.
"And then?" she asked. "What would you do, if you could be a bird?"
"I would fly just enough to remember who I am," the man finally said.
Alan saw the memory from within, through his eyes, as if it were him… though he knew it made no sense. It shouldn't be possible.
"And I'd come back before forgetting it."
She turned her head slightly toward him.
She didn't look fully, but it was enough.
"That doesn't sound like freedom."
"It isn't," admitted the stranger. "But it sounds like choice."
The silence stretched between them, tense for only a moment.
Then she broke it first.
"Look," she said suddenly, leaning slightly forward.
She pointed at the sea.
Alan followed her gesture and saw them: gray shadows gliding beneath the surface, swift and elegant. One leapt briefly, then another, and another. Dolphins. They traveled alongside the ship as if escorting it, jumping through the waves with carefree joy.
She let out a soft, almost childlike laugh.
"They always appear when the sea is in a good mood," she said. "My governess used to say they were messengers of fortune."
The male voice answered without haste:
"Then the ocean must favor us today."
She tilted her head, watching them closely.
"Or maybe they're just curious," she replied. "Animals don't need complex reasons to approach what calls to them."
The ship moved forward, and the dolphins accompanied it for a while before disappearing into the waves.
She rested her elbows on the railing.
"I like them," she added. "They belong nowhere… and yet they always seem to know where to go."
Alan felt something twist inside him.
And then something different happened.
The sea remained.
The ship sailed on.
The conversation continued.
But Alan—the Alan who observed—began to think.
This isn't a memory, he told himself.
Memories aren't like this. They don't have perfect continuity, dialogues so clear, details fitting together like pieces of a meticulously arranged puzzle. This was his mind constructing a scene, blending images, sounds, and ideas he'd encountered the day before.
A dream.
That was all.
A fantasy born of exhaustion, suggestion, hours spent discussing absurd legends and nonexistent queens.
The male voice spoke again, remarking on trivialities—the weather, favorable wind, how far until the next port.
Nothing important.
Nothing monumental.
As if that deep conversation had never happened.
And yet…
Alan felt something was off.
No illogical jumps.
No grotesque distortions.
No that fuzzy dreamlike blur.
Everything was too… coherent.
Too alive.
"You should rest," she said suddenly. "Tomorrow will be a long day."
The sun slowly descended, tinting the sea in golden hues.
Alan felt the weight on his eyelids.
Perfect, he thought.
Now I'll wake up.
Because that's what happens when you realize you're dreaming.
The world began to blur, not suddenly, but as if someone were closing a curtain very slowly.
And as the scene faded, one last thought clung to his mind:
Tomorrow this will make no sense.
Tomorrow I'll laugh at having dreamed it.
The sea vanished.
The ship vanished.
But the feeling…
that didn't go away.
Waking wasn't sudden.
It was slow. Too slow.
Alan first felt the weight on his body, as if he hadn't rested at all. His muscles were tense, stiff, and a dull pressure pressed against his chest, identical to the sensation after sleepless nights.
He opened his eyes.
For a second—just one—he thought he was still on the ship.
The sway persisted. His body moved with a soft, constant rhythm. The sound of the sea remained, deep and enveloping, and as he inhaled he caught a salty, fresh scent so real his mind took a moment to register it.
He blinked.
The gray walls of his room began to take shape. The motionless ceiling. The firm bed beneath his back. The air conditioner humming with its artificial monotony.
No ocean.
No sails.
No creaking wood.
Still, the sensation took a while to fade.
Alan slowly sat up, running a hand over his face. His throat was dry, eyes burning as if he had forced them open for hours. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand.
7:10 a.m.
He had slept.
At least, in theory.
"Ridiculous…" he muttered, letting his head fall back.
He ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply.
His mind sought refuge in what had always given answers: logic.
Dreams could be like this. Vivid. Detailed. Especially when the brain was overstimulated. Late-night reading, repeated conversations, suggestion. Nothing unusual. The brain recreates entire scenarios, blending recent information with random symbols.
That was all.
It meant nothing.
He got out of bed, but a slight dizziness made him lean on the desk for a moment. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and for a second felt the sea breeze on his face again.
He opened his eyes sharply.
"Just fatigue," he told himself. "Nothing more."
He straightened, determined not to let a series of absurd dreams interfere with his routine. His mind had constructed complex scenarios before—they had just never been so… persistent.
As he prepared to leave, an uncomfortable certainty settled in his chest, silent, stubborn.
If this keeps happening, he'll need to sleep better.
That was all.
Because he wasn't reliving anything.
He wasn't remembering anyone.
He was just tired.