The Sunday sun rose quietly, but inside Mazen's chest something else was stirring...
a blend of anxiety and anticipation that had no name.
He woke to his mother's voice behind the door:
"Mazen! It's an important day — don't be late."
He opened his eyes slowly, looked at the ceiling, then sat up in bed.
He wasn't afraid, nor was he calm — only submerged in an unexplainable feeling that lived inside him.
Standing before the mirror, he stared into his dark eyes and thought:
"Everything looks the same... except me."
He washed his face, got dressed, then went down to the kitchen.
His mother was preparing breakfast, softly murmuring prayers. She turned to him with a smile and asked:
"Do you think you'll be one of the winners?"
He replied quietly:
"I don't know... but I'm not afraid to try."
At school, the noise was louder than usual. Everyone was talking about the upcoming test to select the reserve team.
When Mr. Sameh entered the classroom, silence fell instantly.
He scanned the students and said:
"Only five students will be chosen from ten candidates. The test is the day after tomorrow — it won't depend on memorization, but on understanding and quick thinking."
Then he pointed at Mazen:
"You're one of them. Be ready."
Mazen didn't answer; he just nodded.
Ziad whispered with a grin:
"Sometimes I doubt you're one of us."
Mazen replied lightly:
"On the contrary, I'm more human than you... my hearing's just a little bad."
Ziad chuckled:
"Perfect! I talk too much — we balance each other out."
During the break, Mazen sat with Ziad and Mohannad near the small garden inside the school.
They talked about the test format and thinking strategies,
but Mazen's mind was elsewhere — within himself, his strange ability, and the emotions that were silently changing.
He returned home at noon and spent the evening with his notebook and pen,
writing questions of his own — not to memorize them, but to test his way of thinking.
When night came, he lay down as usual, closed his eyes... and felt nothing.
Until he found himself standing.
He opened his eyes —
a vast white room surrounded him, filled with calm morning light.
Across from him sat Salma Mirdan, on a simple wooden chair, flipping through a book with no title.
She lifted her head and said:
"I wasn't too late this time."
"Nor was I," he replied.
They both smiled.
"This place," she said, looking around, "it doesn't feel like any dream."
"That's because it's the real dream."
"How? Don't you see the light? It's morning!"
"In this world... time means nothing."
Mazen took a few steps forward — but suddenly stopped when he heard a faint sound beneath him.
He looked down, and from the shadow crept a huge cockroach, moving slowly.
He jumped back, trembling, his whole body shivering, his eyes turning pale gray.
Salma laughed softly:
"Is that what scares you?"
He replied, shaking:
"Don't mock me... I can't even look at it."
Then, without realizing it, he grabbed the wooden bed behind him —
and lifted it with one hand!
He hurled it with all his strength at the cockroach.
The back wall shattered like glass, glittering shards falling away, revealing an endless world beyond.
Mazen and Salma stood at the edge, staring in awe.
Below them were countless people walking and talking —
some had transparent threads rising from their heads into the sky,
while others moved freely... threadless.
In a hushed voice, Mazen asked:
"What is this?"
Salma answered:
"Those are the ones who dream without awareness."
"And the free ones?"
"Us... and those like us."
"Is all of this real?"
"I don't know... but I believe it's more than just imagination."
Mazen stepped closer to the edge; the ground trembled beneath his feet...
and then everything began to melt — fading like a dying light.
He woke up in shock, breathing rapidly.
He looked at the clock — 6:15 a.m.
Sitting on his bed, hand over his chest, he whispered:
"That was... different."