The Dream Alchemist

My family gathered in the old, white, dusty living room where my grandfather’s face stared at us from the painting above the fireplace. My father wore the same gray clothes he wore the day before. He concealed the same eagerness to start another conversation with, “You wouldn’t believe what I heard about dreams on my way from work!” My mother took the bait and replied, “What about them??! Did they find a way to get them back?!!” she knew deep down they are not coming back, but it’s all we talk about. Every day I heard my father talk passionately about the dream alchemist; till the day he finally heard two strangers on the street vaguely mention him and his shop’s location. They said that his shop was the only shop with a strange sign in the 2048 district. We know better than to ever wander to that district, it offers nothing but misery. One of them swore that he was what this dreamless world needed; he said he had heard about a man who had gone to him and paid all his life savings for one custom-made dream. But the conversation always ends in disbelief; no one believes gossip. 

I’ve lived in a dreamless world; dreams are as ancient as letters around here. I was born in the post-dream epoch. I often ask my mother what it was like to dream; all we have is this raw reality. She told me stories, incredible stories! Imagine dreaming of an endless desert or falling off a cliff, then waking up at the very last second! How thrilling that must’ve been. No one really knows how we lost our dreams; we only have our theories. Some say it was that pandemic that hit us and the subsequent vaccines, some say it was the processed food and drugs people were consuming, and it must’ve altered our brains’ neurochemical interaction. But the most popular theory is blaming the sinful people because it’s easier to blame humanity for the unknown. People started losing their dreams slowly; it took them a while to notice, and when they finally did, it was too late to mourn them. By then, it was only a lucky few who were favored by dreams and who managed to hold on to them for a while longer. 

Dreaming became a myth, a luxury we can’t ever afford or hope to afford. Scientists are trying to come up with ways to stimulate dreams, and they have created drugs that raise the levels of dopamine in the hopes of paving the way for dreams to return. But alas, people must learn to live with the void their absent dreams left behind. People often avoid this subject, but not my family; it’s all we ever talk about. I overheard my mother today praying for a dream of my grandfather. “Please, God, let me have just one dream of my father, just one,” she repeated out of longing for her father’s presence. I heard about how dreams reunited people with their departed loved ones, but I can’t imagine the feeling. Her yearning makes me curious to try and find this dream alchemist I heard my father mention. Like dreams, he was also a myth to many who refused to believe in his existence or the possibility of redemption. I couldn’t decide whether my desire to find him was for my mother or my selfish wish for undisputed proof of his existence.

I thought for three whole days whether I should go to the 2048 district, and eventually decided that the risk was worth it. For some reason, I took it upon myself to ease my mother’s pain. I dressed like a homeless person for I knew otherwise I would be robbed or worse… attacked. I carried nothing of value and only spoke to people who seemed harmless. I must’ve spoke to dozen and none of them was willing to help, they seemed almost no longer human. I wandered the streets aimlessly until midnight, hoping to hear anyone mention the dream alchemist. After walking for what seemed like ages, I saw a man staring at the moon in a trance-like state. He had on a black overcoat and a gray bucket hat. I couldn’t see his features or tell his age, but I felt he might be willing to help me, or maybe I was desperate. I asked him for help, but he remained silent, indifferent, and merely pointed at the sign across from him. The sign had no words, just bizarre symbols in neon lights. It was the first strange sign I saw in the location those men mentioned, so this seemed like a good place to start. I entered the shop, looked around, and saw an old man sitting in the corner. He had a face full of wrinkles and a head full of white hair that made me trust him. He asked me what brought me to this desolate place, and I told him I was looking for the dream alchemist. He seemed anxious, like he was afraid of being uncovered. He denied knowing anything at first, but once I told him of my mother’s grief-stricken condition and swore that I wouldn’t tell a living soul about him, he was willing to help. He explained that the crafted dream depends on the recipient; once a dream is crafted, it never leaves its host. I asked how I may pay for his services and explained that I have a decent sum hidden. He seemed dissatisfied with this agreement but reluctantly agreed. I thought of my mother and her longing for dreams, I thought of my family, how they would finally find something else to talk about, and unconsciously agreed to his demands. He asked for a picture of my deceased grandfather and one of my mother’s possessions. 

The next day, I returned to him carrying them next to my heart, guarding them with my life. He asked once again if I really wanted to proceed; I agreed, gave him my savings, and signed the document he had ready for me. It seemed somewhat cruel of me to share what I had done with my family, especially my mother. She had been praying for this to happen; the way I saw it, I was merely an instrument of God’s plans for her. So, I keep quiet and carry out my plans while dreams are all they talk about. I dosed her favorite drink with the serum the alchemist gave me. The next morning, I waited patiently for my mother to come out of her room, anticipating the look of joy on her weary face. I waited and waited; time dragged on, but she never left her room. My father found her lying on the floor, half paralyzed, repeating, “You’re not my father… you’re not my father!”. She never left her room; she lived the remainder of her life with strokes and nightmares but no dreams in sight.