The Truth Never Told

*Dreaming night — dreaming makes its memory vivid. Not as always, but when it does, it can feel like a continuous series of episodes, unfolding, unfinished. Late that night, I was tired from a heavy workload. I went home to rest, take a warm bath, and let my friend prepare dinner. The evening passed easily with a light meal and a chilled glass of fruity white wine.We laughed, half-singing fragments of old songs from a contest we barely followed. The comfort of routine was its own quiet joy. The next day promised more strain. I said goodnight, retreating to the bedroom, the kind silence of the hallway wrapping around me. In the bathroom mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself—white strands shimmering through the darkness of my hair. They were not many, but they stood out. I nodded to my reflection, offering no words. I felt the weight of days that moved too quickly and thoughts that lingered too long. I picked up my book, the same one I had been reading for weeks, its pages soft from repeated handling. I barely made it past a paragraph before sleep pressed on my eyes. The book slid gently onto my chest. And from there, I do not remember more. But what followed was vivid. Read more