Chapter 9: The Portal of Dreams

The article was due at eleven. At ten thirty-two, Allison was still polishing the final draft.

Her office was just a spare room. Spartan in decor; It was a place to work, that's it. A desk, a lamp, and motivational sticky notes cluttered the space. The notes had gone unread for months. Her monitor's glow and the bright full-spectrum desk lamp lit the room. Spud snoozed in the corner easy chair, snoring softly, entirely unfazed by deadlines.

She envied him deeply. She wanted nothing more than to sleep.

Her fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced precision, fueled by a final burst of adrenaline at the thought of getting a nice check from her client once this piece was done. This was the last of 10 articles on sustainable packaging for their website content. She had typed "sustainable" so many times that the word lost all meaning three articles ago. Her back ached. The cursor blinked at the end of her last paragraph, a tiny, judgmental metronome.

Finally, she was content with her work, double-checked the formats, and uploaded all the files. She stared at the screen, jaw clenched, stomach in knots. It was the all-too-familiar client work anxiety she got every time she had to turn something in. 

Thirty seconds crawled by, a minute, two.

She pressed send. 

The little uploading spinner appeared. Spun once. Twice. The soft ding of the email confirmation chimed from her speakers. It was done. Ten forty-one. Nineteen minutes to spare. She'd made it. The job was done, and the money was hers. The lights would stay on for another month.

She let out a deep breath. Her chest loosened, her shoulders dropped, and her head fell back. Every ounce of tension left her. She sat for a long moment, letting herself relax and zone out. Her vision softened, and the room's edges went slightly fuzzy. She should go to bed before full-on exhaustion hits. She should turn off the computer, brush her teeth, change into pajamas, and do the whole bedtime ablutions to pass herself off as a fully functional adult. She should. She knew it. But she didn't move; she couldn't. Her body was as heavy as a rock, and her limbs were like overcooked spaghetti.

The tower hummed. The lamp glared in her eyes. Spud still snored on the armchair. Allison perched in her chair, arms hanging at her sides, eyes vacant. She inhabited her body but felt severed from it.

Suddenly, the air around the monitor rippled as it did the day before. A firefly appeared on the top edge of the monitor. It couldn't have been the same one that had been following her for two days. Impossible, she thought to herself. It pulsed: short flashes, then long ones, in a rhythm she thought she should recognize, but couldn't place. Not this late, and the brain had long since gone mushy.

"What now?" she murmured in an exhausted, exasperated sigh. "Haven’t you gotten enough from me today?

The firefly glowed brighter, its wings catching the lamplight and fracturing it into tiny golden sparks like a disco ball. It drifted from the monitor's edge and landed on the back of her hand, still faintly stained from testing the new pen's ink, which now rested in her lap. It warmed her skin, and where it touched her, she felt the hum, all too familiar now. She sensed a connection, an invisible string that somehow bound them.

Gradually, the room's edges softened further, and the lights dimmed. Everything around her became hazy and blurred; only the center of her vision remained clear. Her mind drifted, and she remembered the words in her book swirling and shifting before she fell asleep last night, as if an unseen force animated them.

She was bone-weary. Her body became warm as if someone had just settled a blanket over her and tucked her in while she was still seated in her desk chair. It was gentle, and sleep became irresistible. Just let go, someone whispered in her head. The voice was familiar—soft and comforting. She might have imagined the voice; she could no longer tell. The real and the imaginary blurred as much as her vision.

With a final, deep sigh, she closed her eyes. Her head tipped back against the chair. The firefly’s warmth radiated from her hand through her wrist, arm, and chest. She felt herself drifting, dissolving into nothingness. She could no longer feel the chair beneath her or hear her computer tower hum.

And then she was gone.

Allison started to come to; though she wasn't fully aware yet, she knew she was lying on her side on cool, hard stone, unyielding beneath her pressure points. When her brain woke again, she opened her eyes. Golden shafts of light poured in from the sky above, sparkling with motes that looked like glitter but were probably just dust. It was softer, diffused, like moonlight filtered through water. Light came from everywhere and nowhere, illuminating the space without a source. It was warm without heat, responding to her presence. She knew instantly that she’d come back to Dreamspace.

Then she noticed the ground. Cobblestones—fitted in an intricate mosaic—glowed faintly and steadily with a warm golden light that seemed to radiate from everything here. The rhythm pulsed. She recognized it. It was the familiar heartbeat of everything connected to Dreamspace: Tha-thump. Tha-thump.

Finally, a voice cut in, excited and sharp.

"Holy raspberries! She did it! She's here!"

Allison groaned. The sound struck like a cymbal crash—shrill, glaring, overwhelming. Her senses scrambled, as in those first moments of the crossing, just like the last time; everything was dialed to eleven. She pressed her hands to her ears and scrunched up her face. The light seared; the stone felt ice-cold; Thimble’s high-pitched voice was ear-splitting.

Thimble appeared in Allison’s field of vision—her small, striped, furry body practically vibrating with excitement. Her dark eyes shone with joy, her little paws bouncing on the cobblestones. She looked every bit like Allison's memory of that day on Culp's Hill.

"Allison! You made it! Oh my... you're really here. Again! This is wonderful. This is..." Thimble stopped abruptly, noticing Allison’s discomfort.

Thimble’s whole body shifted into a softer, quieter excitement in a heartbeat. She lowered herself to the ground beside Allison, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Oh no. Sorry. Sorry. You're okay. You're safe." She placed one warm, soft paw gently on Allison's arm. "You're in Dreamspace again. Just breathe. Take your time. This crossing was harder the second time. Sensory stuff?"

Allison nodded, lying there and breathing slowly in through her nose, out through her mouth. The sensory overload receded slowly. The world dialed itself down from unbearable to overwhelming to manageable.

"How," she managed, her voice thick and groggy with sleep, "did I get here again?"

"You came through the portal," Thimble said gently. "The shimmer you saw—by your computer. That was it. Your portal. Only you can see it."

"I didn't... I didn't choose to come through. I just... I was sitting there. I was tired. I guess I just drifted off."

"I know," Thimble said, her voice kind. "The Dreamspace has been reaching for you all day. You've been so close to the threshold all day—the writing this morning, the coffee shop, the scent that's been following you, the TV. Every time you used your new pen, every word that crossed between the worlds, the veil got thinner. By tonight, after working yourself to the bone as you have been, you were so close that falling asleep was enough."

"So the Dreamspace basically waited until I was too tired to say no."

Thimble's whiskers twitched. "I'd say it waited until you were too tired to say 'not yet.'"

Allison nodded, took her hands from her ears, and sat up. After a few more breaths, Allison sat up. The stimuli were becoming less overwhelming, enough for her to finally take in where she was. The mosaic of glowing cobblestones spread out beneath her in a wide circle, and at its center—right where she'd been lying—was an inlaid image: a lantern, its frame and flame rendered in gold and amber stones, pulsing with that same heartbeat.

"It’s a lantern. Like on the card," she murmured.

"Something like that. That’s the symbol of the Sparkkeeper," Thimble said, sitting beside her with her tail curled neatly around her paws.

Beyond the mosaic, the Dreamspace stretched out in every direction—the willows and the lake where she had landed before, in the distance, the sparkles of fireflies flitting along the lit paths she was beginning to recognize. But something was different. Something had changed since her last visit.

She could smell it before she could focus enough to see it. It was stronger than before. Salt air, sand, and sunscreen; the vinegary tang of boardwalk fries with Old Bay; saltwater taffy; and the warm-tar scent of a parking lot in July. She took a deep breath in, closed her eyes, and smiled. The beach. It was one of her favorite smells. She turned her head.

The carnival. 

It was there, without a hint of fog this time, and not a distant place seen through willow fronds. It was there—fully present, fully formed, blazing with light and color and sound. The string lights blinked. The carousel turned. The calliope played its squeaky, piercing melody with Summertime threaded underneath. And any barrier that was there was gone, too. The path to the carnival was open and waiting. Something inside Allison's chest was urging her to get up and go toward the song, toward the carnival where her stuffed animals were playing games and enjoying the rides.

"You did it," Thimble said softly, watching Allison's face. "It's open. I told you."

Allison blinked and turned to Thimble, her mouth slightly open in mild shock. "Was that you? This morning? On my bike ride? I heard. I thought I heard your voice. In my head. You said the carnival was open."

Thimble's whiskers twitched again, accompanied by a modest smile and a little wink. "Told you I'd be around."

Allison scoffed jokingly. "You're such a curious animal."

"I prefer 'persistent.'"

Footsteps approached from the tree line. Allison and Thimble heard the familiar, soft mechanical whirr of gears and servos. Sol emerged from between the willows, their golden eyes glowing steadily in the firefly-lit dark. They moved with their usual fluid clockwork grace, each joint articulating with quiet precision. Their hair caught the breeze as they walked. They stopped a few feet from Allison and Thimble, and their eyes dimmed briefly as they gave a gentle, practiced smile.

"Welcome back," Sol said.

"Hey," Allison said, looking up from the mosaic. "Long time, no see. Or a short time. I honestly don't know how time works here."

"It does not," Sol said. "Not the way you're used to."

Sol extended their hand, palm up, mechanical fingers open, the same gesture as at their first meeting. Allison took it this time. The metal was warm, just like a real body. The grip was gentle and precise, supporting her weight with ease and adjusting as she stood. She was steadier on her feet than she expected.

"Thanks," she said.

"Always," Sol replied.

They stood together and looked toward the carnival. The boardwalk stretched out before them, weathered, warm wooden planks disappearing into the glow of string lights and the sound of calliope music.

"Shall we?" Sol asked, crooked an elbow toward Allison, in a silent ask for her to take it.

Allison's heart pounded as she nodded, took the offered elbow, smiled softly, looked down at her feet, and started walking. She was feeling something between anticipation and grief, between excitement and the ache of returning to a place you found again that you never knew you had lost.

The heady scent now enveloped her completely. It was a fragrant ghost that had haunted her all day, through every activity and place.

The teddy bears were back in their places. The one in the striped apron—the same one who she'd seen before—looked up from the cotton candy spinner. Its button eyes found hers. And this time, instead of waving, it bowed. A small, solemn, deeply respectful bow, one felted paw pressed to its chest.

Allison's voice was without sound. She could barely breathe.

The other bears followed—one by one, booth by booth—and turned toward her, bowing. The ring-toss bear. The prize-winning bear. The caramel-apple bear. Dozens of them, in their striped aprons, paused their work to acknowledge her with that same quiet, reverent gesture.

Thimble trotted alongside her and looked up. "They know who you are," she said softly.

"Me? How do they know me? I'm no one special." Allison whispered.

Sol stopped walking. They turned to face her, and their golden eyes brightened—steadying into a warm, unwavering glow. The fireflies in the air around them slowed their orbits, as if they, too, were listening; their tiny abdomen lanterns dimmed momentarily before regaining their usual brightness and rhythm.

"You're a Sparkkeeper," Sol said.

The word landed like a boulder crashing into a slow river, stopping Allison in her tracks; for a moment, she almost forgot to breathe. She cocked an eyebrow and turned to look at Thimble, who looked up at her with a bright smile, baring the points of her canines. Allison crouched before the small creature to look her in the eyes and see the shock on her face.

"What did you call me? I'm a what now? A Sparkkeeper?" Allison cracked up laughing, nearly tumbling backward. "What even is that?"

"A Sparkkeeper is someone whose words take root here," Sol said. 

Allison stood back up, looking to Sol as they continued speaking. "There have been very few. It’s inherited. Your writing doesn’t just describe the world, Allison; it shapes it. Not in metaphor. In form. Every word you've written—in journals, in drafts, in daydream escapes you thought were all in your head—has become real here. The paths you're walking on. The boardwalk beneath your feet. The carnival that your childhood drawing built. It is your birthright."

She looked down at the planks. At the warm wood beneath her bare feet. She hadn't made this part, but someone had. But the carnival? That one was hers, sort of. She made it, drew it for her dad. Just crayons and paper.

"Wait, my dad was the only one who had the carnival picture. Did he make this part?  she asked. Her mind was trying to pinpoint every memory she had with him, hoping she could figure out whether she'd somehow known, or if he'd told her at any point.

"So, wait, he was a Sparkkeeper?" She asked quietly. 

Both Sol and Thimble nodded, watching Allison's face. Everything they wanted to know about what she was thinking was right there in her very expression.

The bewilderment was real. Her voice, small and terrified, said, "Dad didn't tell me anything about this, and so, what, am I one too, now?" 

"Not yet," Sol said softly, with the well-rehearsed smile of an android trying to become human without losing its mechanical nature. "But the Dreamspace does not choose people who think they are qualified. It chooses an ancestry of people who create because it is like breathing. Because the words come whether they want them to or not. Because it is in your blood, Allison. It is a part of you. So, yes—your dad and your grandfather, too.

Her eyes burned, and she looked away—at the carousel, at the teddy bears, at the ocean glittering beyond the railing. Anywhere but at Sol's golden eyes or Thimble's deeply knowing ones, which saw too much of her.

"The Dreamspace has been dormant for a long time," Sol continued. "Too long. Your writing reawakened it. Your words opened pathways that had been sealed for years. That is a gift, Allison. But it is also a responsibility."

She didn't answer immediately. The calliope played on. The carousel turned. As they passed, a teddy bear offered her a cone of cotton candy, holding it out with patient, felted paws.

“Everything, Allison. Everything you have ever written, said, or felt about yourself is here. In this space.” Sol said cautiously, arms outstretched as they turned in place, gesturing toward Dreamspace as a whole. “Good, bad, neutral. It is all here. Every part of it.”

Allison nodded without a word as they continued, carefully considering Sol's words.

They walked further along the boardwalk in silence for a few moments. The carnival sounds softened, and the lights gradually dimmed as they moved past the main strip toward the ocean. The boardwalk curved gently along the shoreline, and the wood beneath Allison's feet was warm and worn smooth by sea salt and sand, just as it should be.

Then Sol spoke again, and their voice was different—lower, more careful, stripped of the gentle amusement that usually softened their words.

"Now that the portal is open, now that the Dreamspace is waking, others may notice. The boundaries between worlds are less stable than they once were. Not everything that seeks entry is benevolent. And your spark is like a beacon. It draws attention."

Allison stopped. The ocean stretched out before them. Greenish-blue water and golden sands stretched as far as her eyes could see. Fluffy tan foam jiggled in the ocean breeze while horseshoe crabs wandered along like brown, shallow upside-down bowls with tails. She could hear the waves, thundering and rhythmic, crashing against a shore that shouldn't exist here, in this space.

She breathed in the ocean air and closed her eyes. She grabbed the boardwalk rail and looked down; a quiet tear fell from her cheek onto the sand below, leaving a small wet indent as a group of sea gulls padded on by, their webbed feet leaving imprints in the sand.

"Can't Dreamspace just leave me alone?" The words came out fearfully. "Why now? Why did you all start showing up now? I've been writing for years. Nothing happened. Why is everything happening all at once?"

"Because you weren't ready before," Sol said. "And because the Dreamspace wasn't awake before. You woke it up, Allison, with the words you wrote at the creek, with the memories you fed it this morning at the coffee shop. Every word was a spark. And now there are enough sparks manifesting here that you and Dreamspace have begun to awaken again. But that also means other things have also woken up. Things that are perhaps not so good"

"Other things," Allison repeated flatly. "That's comforting."

"It means we don't have a great deal of time," Sol said. "You need to understand what you are and why you're here before the Dreamspace is compromised. There will come a time, sooner rather than later, when you need to choose to take up the mantle or walk away."

Allison turned back and glanced at the carnival, still glowing in the distance. And there, at the top of the boardwalk steps, leading down onto the beach, she saw it.

The sign—the one on the TV mounted on the weathered railing, the one that appeared in the home movie of her and her father walking hand in hand in 1988.

The boardwalk is rendering.

Only now were the old words gone, replaced by a phrase. Freshly etched. Glowing faintly with that golden shimmer she'd come to know so well.

Welcome home, Sparkkeeper.

Her lips parted. Her vision blurred with tears she was trying so hard to fight.

"I've been here before, Dreamspace, I mean," she whispered, looking around her, still unable to believe her eyes. "Only in dreams," she finished. "How in the world did any of this become real?"

Sol stood beside her. Quiet. Patient. Their golden eyes were steady.

"You're not just here to explore, Allison," they said. "You're not here to merely visit when we pull you through. You are so much more than you've allowed yourself to believe. You're here to remember just how truly special you are, to create this realm, to make it real. And now that the door is wide open..."

They paused. The fireflies slowed. The ocean halted its relentless rush upon the shore, as if someone pressed the pause button on a VCR. The light overhead, which illuminated the entire realm, flickered just once. 

As suddenly as the ocean had slowed to a stop, the waves slowly sped up until they began beating against the shore once again, and the carnival lights pulsed in the distance as if nothing had happened.

In the sudden silence, everyone looked around, concerned. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

"Uh, guys, what's going on?" Allison asked, wide-eyed, reaching out for Sol's arm. "What just happened?"

Thimble sighed and looked over at Sol. "Time is running out."