Translated from RU
I dreamed that I was walking down a narrow street in an old town. The cobblestones beneath my feet were uneven, and on both sides, tall buildings with peeling plaster almost met overhead with their roofs. The sun filtered through in thin rays, and everything around had a golden, misty hue.
Suddenly, I noticed a small door in the wall — it definitely hadn’t been there before. I opened it, and inside was an endless library: shelves stretched upwards, disappearing into darkness, and the books glowed softly from within. The scent of old paper mingled with something sweet, like vanilla.
I picked up one book and opened it — but there were no words, only moving images, like memories. I saw myself as a child on a swing in a park, hearing laughter. Then the image changed — I was an adult, standing on the shore of the sea, waves lapping at my feet, and I felt such lightness, as if all the bad had been washed away by the water.
I wanted to take another book, but suddenly the library began to dissolve. The walls became transparent, and I was back on the same street. Only now it was filled with people — everyone was rushing somewhere, but no one noticed me. I tried to call out to someone, but I had no voice.
And then I woke up. The feeling was strange — both calm and unsettling, as if something important was nearby, but I hadn’t managed to understand what it was.
