That night, the child returned with a ribbon darker than the others, almost black, threaded with faint silver lines. She tied it around Jake's wrist without explanation, then beckoned him toward the forest. The air was cool, carrying the scent of moss and smoke. Jake followed, his pulse quickening with curiosity.
They reached a clearing where figures lay on woven mats beneath the open sky. No fires burned. Instead, the stars themselves seemed to hum, their light pulsing in rhythm with the ribbons tied to each wrist. The child pointed to the empty mat. Jake lay down, uncertain, and pressed his palms together as he had learned. Those around him returned the gesture, even in silence.
The ritual began not with movement, but with stillness. Each figure closed their eyes. Jake did the same. At first, he heard only the forest—the rustle of leaves, the distant stream. Then, slowly, another sound emerged: a low hum, not from outside but from within. It was as if the ribbons carried voices into his chest.
The hum grew, weaving into patterns. Jake felt images forming behind his closed eyes: a ribbon tied to a branch, a leaf drifting downstream, a flame in a shallow bowl. Each vision echoed lessons he had already learned. But now they were connected, woven into a larger rhythm. He realised the ritual was not about dreaming alone—it was about dreaming together.
The child's presence was near, her hum distinct among the others. Jake saw her ribbon glowing, guiding him through the visions. He followed, and the dream shifted. He stood in a circle of figures, each offering an object. When his turn came, he placed not a ribbon or coin, but his own memory: the sound of rain against a window, noodles eaten alone. The circle accepted it, transforming loneliness into belonging. The hum deepened, carrying his memory outward, shared but not taken.
Jake woke suddenly, breath sharp. The clearing was quiet, the stars steady. Around him, figures stirred, tying their ribbons tighter. The child sat up, watching him. She tapped her chest, then pointed to the sky. A gesture of acknowledgment: You dreamed with us. Jake pressed his hand to his chest in return, overwhelmed.
As the group dispersed, Jake lingered. He realised the ritual had taught him something practical yet profound: rest did not escape, but participation. Dreams here were communal, a way to weave lessons into memory. Sleep was not solitude—it was shared silence.
Back at the shelter, Jake tied the dark ribbon beside the others. It pulsed faintly, silver lines shimmering. He wrote on the wall: Dreams are not private. They are bridges, carrying us into each other's silence. The ink shimmered, then settled. Another vow, another step forward.
That night, when he lay beneath the shifting ceiling, he felt less alone. Even in sleep, he knew the hum would return, carrying him into the circle again. And this time, he would not hesitate to offer himself.