Somnara City was a place where even the dreams had districts.
Somewhere between the waking sprawl and the mist-hung skyline, between gears that hummed and stars that blinked inside glass towers, people slept with one eye open. The city never went dark — it only changed colors. Midnight blues for the tired, golden dusk for the hopeful, violet dawn for the ones who couldn't tell if they were dreaming or not.
For Marin, it was all just noise.
She woke to it every day — the low drone of cloud trams overhead, the chatter of mechanical pigeons, the sharp smell of rain that came from the fog filters in the walls. Her window was a rectangle of blue-gray light. Outside, the towers leaned over one another like sleepy giants.
Another day. Another list of things to do.
Her mother always said the city had no mercy for those who stopped moving. "The world rewards motion, Marin," she'd say, half-smiling, half-exhausted. "Keep walking, and the city will open up to you."
But Marin had been walking for years, and all it had ever opened were more doors to disappointment.
She pushed herself up slowly. Her hair — dark and tangled — fell into her face as she rubbed her eyes. A thin film of dust had gathered on her bedside shelf, coating the small collection of objects she'd long stopped caring about: a cracked music box, a metal bookmark shaped like a wing, a half-burnt candle. The only thing that wasn't covered in dust was the relic — a smooth violet orb, no bigger than an apple, resting in its cloth nest like an egg that would never hatch.
The orb pulsed faintly, sensing her wakefulness.
"Don't look at me like that." she muttered.
Marin wasn't lazy by nature. She used to be one of the curious ones — the kind who'd climb rooftops just to watch the dream-trains pass or sneak into the Wisher's Market to hear the fortune-callers whisper stories about lost worlds. But the world had a way of punishing people who cared too much.
It started small.
A friend who lied.
A teacher who took credit for her idea.
A brother who laughed when she cried.
And then bigger things — an accident she still didn't talk about, the one that made her mother stop looking her in the eyes for a while. The one that left Marin convinced that caring only ever led to regret.
Now she was just tired.
Not sleepy tired — soul tired. The kind that made your chest feel like it had caved in a little.
Her mother's voice came from the kitchen, distant and clipped.
"Marin! The filter lines are leaking again. And the street team said they'd pay extra for cloud-laundry runs today."
Marin flopped back down. "You do it."
"What?"
"I said you do it."
A silence hung. Then, quieter — "You know I can't. I have the night shift."
"I didn't ask you to take the night shift." Marin said into her pillow.
She didn't mean for it to sound cruel, but it did. The words came out like a shard of glass.
Her mother didn't respond this time. She just let the silence grow until the sound of the kettle filled it, soft and thin.
Marin rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. The plaster had small cracks in it, like a web of white rivers. She traced one with her finger, pretending it led somewhere.
When she was younger, she used to think cracks were secret maps — signs from another world, maybe the dream world, trying to reach her. Back then, her brother used to tease her for it.
"You think everything's magic, don't you?" he'd laugh. "Next you'll say dust bunnies can talk."
She'd throw a pillow at him. "Maybe they can!"
But she didn't believe in that kind of thing anymore. Her brother had grown up faster than her — too fast, in her opinion. He joined the Archivist's Guild at sixteen and came back home talking like a stranger, all precision and pride. He'd smirk when she forgot something, call her "spacey," "hopeless," "a dream-thief."
He thought he was teasing.
She thought he was cruel.
One day he took her relic — the orb — and locked it in his drawer just to see how long it would take her to beg for it back. It took her three hours. He gave it back with a smug grin.
"See? You do care about something," he'd said. "Just not anyone."
She never forgave him for that.
Not really.
Now she lay there, that same relic pulsing beside her, half-lit by filtered sunlight. The city outside rattled and groaned. She could hear her neighbors in the next apartment — a couple arguing about a broken filter, their voices overlapping like static. Someone above was playing a stringed instrument that couldn't decide on a key. Someone below was snoring.
The world was too loud.
She pressed her hands over her ears. "Just stop."
Her relic pulsed again.
She stared at it, chest tightening. She wasn't supposed to use it like that. Temporal relics were meant for the city's repair workers — a sanctioned pause in time to avoid fatigue-related errors. Using it for anything else was illegal. Dangerous. But it had always answered her when she whispered to it.
Because deep down, it wasn't a worker's tool. It was her only friend.
She reached for it now, fingers trembling.
"Please," she whispered, "just a minute."
The violet light bloomed.
And the sound fell away — all of it.
The hum, the shouting, the music, the kettle, the heartbeat of the city. Gone.
Silence.
Perfect, heavy silence.
The air shimmered faintly, like glass breathing. Dust hung midair. The clock's second hand froze mid-tick. Marin exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.
Her body finally relaxed.
No people.
No work.
No expectations.
Just stillness.
She wanted to stay like this forever — not because it was blissful, but because it was safe.
The world couldn't reach her here.
No one could lie to her, hurt her, or demand more.
She rolled over, staring at the ceiling again. The cracks didn't move. Time didn't move.
Her mind began to drift — a slow, weightless slide between waking and dreaming.
People said Somnara City was built on remnants of forgotten desires. That its towers were forged from half-finished prayers, and its fog was condensed longing. Marin believed it. Every inch of the place reeked of exhaustion — like everyone was chasing something that always stayed a step ahead. The streets shimmered with dream-light, but under it all was rust and fatigue.
Every night, new lights appeared in the sky — not stars, but dreams that had escaped from someone's head. They floated up and got stuck in the clouds, flickering weakly before fading. The Archivists called them "residual projections." Marin called them "people who tried too hard."
And she wanted no part of that.
The city could chase all the glory and ambition it wanted. She just wanted quiet.
She closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the pause.
Her thoughts slowed.
Her breathing evened.
And for the first time all week, Marin smiled.
Here, the noise stopped. Here, the ache behind her ribs dulled. Here, the world couldn't ask anything of her.
Maybe this was all she'd ever wanted — a still corner of the universe where she didn't have to keep pretending to care.
She didn't know that every time she did this, the relic grew dimmer.
That every "pause" wasn't a break — it was a piece of her being spent.
That soon, something else might start noticing the space she left behind when she stopped moving.
But for now, she didn't care.
The city was frozen in mid-breath, and Marin was asleep inside it.
At peace.
At last.
But peace never stayed still for long.
Even when time stopped, the light still moved — a soft violet pulse that brushed against her cheek like a heartbeat beneath the glass.
Marin opened her eyes again.
The air had changed. The silence had a shape to it now — a slow ripple, like something breathing under the surface of the pause. Dust motes hung like tiny planets suspended mid-orbit. One drifted past her face and she realized she could see her reflection in it, distorted, a blur with tired eyes.
"Still me," she whispered, though she wasn't sure she sounded convinced.
Her body ached from doing nothing. It was a strange kind of fatigue — not from motion, but from staying still too long. She curled her fingers around the relic and felt its faint pulse returning through her skin. Warm. Familiar. Too alive.
"Don't take it personally," she murmured to it. "You're the only one that listens."
Her mother used to tell her that people needed noise — that silence made them face things they didn't want to think about. Maybe that was why Marin clung to it. Silence didn't lie. It didn't demand. It didn't smile at you one day and vanish the next. It didn't hurt you and call it "just teasing."
Her hand drifted to the little scar behind her ear — the one her brother had given her when they were kids. A broken toy, a sharp edge, an accident, he said. But she remembered the look on his face. The one that wasn't sorry. The one that meant he'd learned she was easy to break.
The bitterness tasted old. She was tired of holding it, but she didn't know how to put it down.
She leaned back against the wall, feeling its cool press against her spine. Her apartment was small — one room pretending to be three. The kitchen folded into the sleeping space, and the corner by the window served as both workspace and storage. The walls were lined with makeshift shelves, all of them cluttered with forgotten things: filter coils, broken lamp glass, papers she kept meaning to throw away. Every object hummed faintly with the city's constant current, a pulse beneath everything, like veins beneath skin.
Sometimes, Marin imagined the city itself was alive — that it watched through its glass towers and pulsing conduits. Maybe it liked her pauses, too. Maybe it envied them. Maybe it envied the silence.
She let her eyes wander up again, tracing the cracks above her. They looked different now. Not like rivers this time — like roots. Growing. Spreading.
Her eyelids felt heavy. She hadn't really slept in days — not properly. Even her pauses left her tired now. But this one... this one felt deeper. The silence was growing thicker, heavier, almost velvety. Her breath echoed in it. The pulse of the relic slowed until it matched her heartbeat.
Maybe, she thought, she could rest here. Really rest.
Her body sank lower against the mattress. The cracks on the ceiling blurred into soft lines of light, shifting like waves. The air shimmered again — not sharply, but like a curtain being drawn between worlds.
She was half-asleep when she thought she saw movement — a shape among the still dust. Something pale and soft, like fog curling at the edge of her vision.
She blinked. It was gone.
Her mind was slipping now. The silence had become too perfect, too absolute. Even the air didn't feel real anymore.
For the first time, she wondered if maybe this was what dying felt like — not pain, not darkness, just a long, quiet pause where the world forgot your name.
And then she let go.
The violet light dimmed, and the relic's glow folded in on itself like a sigh.
Marin drifted into the kind of sleep that felt bottomless —
and somewhere far below, something began to stir.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just curious.
Like a voice in the clouds whispering her name.
---
The world softened around Marin.
Light no longer had an edge. Colors blended like watercolors spilled across the sky — pale lavender bleeding into molten gold, fading into a gentle sapphire that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of her heartbeat. The mist from her pause thickened into a gauzy carpet beneath her feet, warm and pliant, holding her as she stepped forward.
She looked down and saw reflections of herself scattered like lanterns on the fog. Some flickered with worry, others with faint laughter, all dissolving into the soft glow of dreamlight. The air smelled of quiet rain and distant orchards, a scent so real she thought she could taste it. Every sound was distant, softened — the hum of the city a memory, the clatter of gears a whisper beneath the wind.
She walked slowly, savoring the weightless calm. Somewhere far off, light rippled like water, hinting at shapes she didn't yet recognize. And then she heard it: a sigh, long and gentle, a sound that carried across the mist like a lazy melody.
Marin tilted her head. The sigh came again, this time closer.
He was there before she fully noticed, stretched out across a mound of clouds like he'd been waiting all along. Reclining with a large, worn travel pillow tucked under his head, he looked at her without moving, eyes half-lidded, a faint galaxy spinning slowly in their depths. His hair floated around him, soft, cloud-like, silver-white strands catching the glimmering light like moonlight on snow. A faint wind lifted the ends, curling them in playful arcs, yet he didn't stir.
He wore an oversized hoodie, pale as moonlight, soft and worn, with faint embroidery tracing stars, crescent moons, and abstract dream-symbols along the seams. The hood itself seemed too large for him, draping around his shoulders like a cloud settling in place, as if it were part of the air itself. When he moved, the fabric barely stirred, flowing in gentle ripples that made it feel weightless, almost liquid.
Around his neck hung a sleep mask, dangling loosely like a medallion — soft silk, stitched with silver thread that glimmered faintly with constellations she couldn't name. It rested on his chest when he wasn't using it, yet it seemed to hum with the quiet patience of someone who had waited eons for rest.
"This? Best part of me," he said slowly, voice drowsy, almost a yawn in every syllable. "Never leaves my side. Pillows are honest. Pillows don't expect things. Pillows don't pretend. You might want one someday."
Marin tilted her head, unsure if she should move closer. She felt it immediately — the warmth of his words, the quiet comfort in the way he spoke. There was no pressure, no need for her to respond. And in the pause, she understood exactly what he meant.
She lowered herself onto a nearby cloud, hesitant at first, testing it like one would test a stranger's trust. It was softer than she imagined, buoyant yet firm, carrying her weight without complaint. She curled her legs slightly, trying not to seem intrusive, keeping her gaze on the endless horizon where clouds drifted like ocean waves.
"You... live here?" she asked, her voice small, cautious.
Nimbus yawned. Slowly. Exaggeratedly. Then stretched, letting one hand drift over the pillow. "Well... I exist partly in dreams, partly in the spaces people leave behind. Between memory and desire. That's where I like to nap. It's... cozy. Less screaming."
Marin didn't respond, but she listened.
"Every time someone misuses a relic," he continued, voice almost musical in its drowsy cadence, "or mismanages their wants... or just... well... fails at being human in a spectacularly destructive way, I show up. A guide. A pillow-bearing adviser. A nap enthusiast. Failures are... well, costly. Small cracks. Whispers of longing. Distortions. Things that bleed into the waking world."
Marin stayed quiet. Her hands gripped the cloud's edge slightly, careful. Talking had never been her strong suit. Trust had always felt like a weapon pointed at her back. She remembered her brother, her mother, the friends who had lied. The world was a thousand hands reaching for something from her, and she had learned to pull hers away before it could be taken.
"I see," she said finally, soft, flat, almost like a fact rather than a conversation.
Nimbus blinked slowly, a galaxy swirling in each eye. "Good. Observation is underrated. Most people just shout at me. Or try to hug the wrong constellation. Or—well. You'd be surprised how few understand the nuances of a good pillow."
Marin's lips twitched. She refused to laugh. Almost. But she shifted slightly, closer to the pillow he rested on. Not touching him, not talking — just there, feeling the calm he exuded.
"It's... peaceful here," she admitted. Quietly. More to herself than to him.
"Isn't it?" he said, stretching one arm like a ribbon of soft light. "Peace doesn't ask questions. Doesn't want answers. Doesn't pretend the world isn't broken. You like that? I like that."
She nodded slowly, finally allowing a small sigh to escape. Her shoulders loosened a fraction. No one was asking anything of her here. No one was watching. No one was keeping score.
"Pillows are honest," Nimbus murmured again, as though reading her thoughts. "You might want one someday. Or maybe... you already have one. I dunno. I'm biased."
Marin closed her eyes briefly. Yes. She understood. She could stay like this. Not because the dream was perfect, or even safe — but because for the first time in years, she didn't have to hide from someone trying to take her carefully folded edges and unravel them.
She could simply... be.
And Nimbus, lying there with his absurdly large pillow, playful and impossibly tired, was proof that someone — or something — understood that.
For now, that was enough.
Marin's fingers tightened around her relic that flew to her in the dream. The violet orb pulsed faintly in her hand, sensing her attention, almost like it had been waiting for someone to finally notice.
Nimbus shifted lazily on his pillow, stretching one arm toward her, the constellations on his blanket and hoodie catching the light as if they were winking. "That," he murmured, voice soft and slow, "that little egg... it's not just a shiny toy. Not just a pause button for noisy streets. It's... well... part of you. Part of your quiet."
Marin blinked, unsure if she wanted to respond. Talking had always been risky. Words could wound. Words could be twisted. She stayed silent, but her grip tightened.
"Good," he said, smiling faintly, half-yawned, half-playful. "Silence is... underrated. But you can still let it show you things, if you want."
He propped himself up slightly on the pillow, letting the cloud shift beneath him like water. "Try it," he murmured. "Not on me, silly. On... the world. You already know how it feels. Let's see what it does here."
Marin hesitated. She had used the relic to pause her city, to stop the noise, to hide. But here... here, the world was already soft, suspended. What could pausing it do?
Nimbus's half-lidded eyes caught hers. "Don't think too hard. You're not answering anyone. Not me. Not the clouds. Not even... yourself, really. Just... do it. See."
She raised the orb, hesitating a moment, then whispered, "Just... a minute."
The violet glow bloomed, filling her palm with light. Slowly, almost lazily, the effect rippled outward. The clouds beneath her shifted mid-breath, halting in mid-motion. Stars in the distance paused mid-twinkle. The faint streaks of silver mist that danced in the air froze in place, suspended like crystal. Even Nimbus's pillow, though he remained propped upon it, seemed to hold a single, perfect ripple as the light of the orb brushed it.
He let out a soft sigh, voice rumbling like distant thunder softened into a lullaby. "Ah... there. See? Not bad for a first try. You paused... not just the noise. Not just the city. The world itself listens when you ask it nicely."
Marin's breath caught. She could see the small movements of clouds, the drift of distant lights, the soft shimmer of the dream's mist — all frozen, balanced perfectly in that pause. No one demanded anything. No one intruded. No one expected.
Nimbus stretched one arm toward her, lazily pointing with a finger tipped in starlight. "See how it ripples? That's your... influence. Careful, though. The bigger the pause, the more it leaves a mark. It's not just stopping time. It's... bending. Memory. Desire. Space. Everything's fragile here. You handle it right, it listens. You push too hard, it... sighs. Cracks. Whispers. Things shift where you don't want them to."
Marin shifted closer to the cloud, still cautious, still silent, but watching the world she held in her hand. The violet light made the mist glitter faintly, a delicate web connecting her to every suspended piece of the dream.
"Don't be afraid," Nimbus murmured. "It's yours. Not mine. Not anyone else's. Just... a tool. Like a pillow. Honest. Don't let it ask for more than you're willing to give."
She exhaled slowly, letting herself marvel without words. In the dream, she could pause everything without shame, without demand. And the orb... it didn't ask, it didn't lie, it didn't manipulate.
"Good," Nimbus said, settling back into his pillow, eyes closing halfway in that eternal, gentle yawn. "Now... play. Watch. See what happens when you care... just enough to notice."
Marin didn't speak. She didn't need to. For the first time in a long time, she didn't have to.
And in that suspended, glowing dreamscape, she understood — here, nothing could touch her, and yet, everything was alive.