bionictrilogy

Without hesitation, she began her daily routine. She washed her face to help herself wake up and noticed, now more than ever, the pronounced dark circles under her eyes, which strongly contrasted with her pale skin. She also felt a slight burning on her face, as if sandpaper had been dragged across her cheeks, or like a gust of wind had blasted her with beach sand. But she paid little attention to the abrasive sensation.

She changed out of her pajamas and into workout clothes, grabbed her headphones, and went out for a walk around the block. She did this every day, following her last therapist’s advice, who had told her that establishing routines and doing exercise, or at least staying active, would help her fall asleep more easily. In truth, nothing really worked for her, and she was learning to accept and live with the lack of sleep. Anyway, she enjoyed that half hour of walking or jogging outdoors, breathing fresh air while listening to music. Disconnecting from the world and, more importantly, from her dreams.

Before heading back home, she always stopped by the house of her neighbor across the street, an elderly man in his late eighties, widowed, and practically abandoned by his own children. Mr. Buford needed help with his daily life, and Lyra had taken it upon herself to lend him a hand, especially after the death of his wife, with whom she used to have coffee once a week to keep her company as well.

The elderly couple had been very kind to her, especially after her mother’s death, and she felt indebted to them. Now, both were alone, and they found comfort in each other’s company. So every day after her morning walk, she would grab the newspaper from the mailbox and bring it to the old man to keep him company for a while.

“You're a bit late today,” Mr. Burford smiled from his favorite spot by the window in the living room.

“I’ll admit I got up a little late this morning,” Lyra said as she stepped into the house to hand him the newspaper. “Here you go, so you can stay updated on the world’s atrocities.”

They both laughed: “Sadly.”

Lyra moved through the house with ease, almost as if she lived there. She went into the kitchen and started making coffee.

“Sweetheart, leave that. You’re going to be late for work.”

“Don’t worry. I have a few minutes, and if I’m late... well, they can wait,” she joked. “There are more important things in life.” She stated with a smile.

“Thank you.” The man said uneasy, his eyes welled with tears as he looked at her, visibly unsettled.

“Same as always for breakfast?”

“No, no. I’m not hungry today,” he replied with a bit of sadness in his voice.

“That’s not like you.” Lyra heard him, but she still went ahead and made a piece of toast with butter. As she was taking the toasted bread, she felt a sharp sting on the tip of her index finger.

“Ouch!” she said, bringing her finger to her mouth and dropping the knife she was going to use to spread the butter.

Mr. Burford leaned his head forward as best he could to see what was happening: “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just a little off today. Another sleepless night… as usual," she replied, glancing down at her finger in confusion.

The memory of her dream, sticking her finger into the flame to see if she was asleep, flashed through her mind. "Weird," she muttered.

She was immersed in her thoughts. If her neighbor said anything during that time, she didn’t hear it. “Mr. Burford, have you ever sleepwalked?” She asked without even noticing.

“No…” he chuckled. “That came out of nowhere.”

“Sorry. It’s just that last night I dreamed I hurt my finger, and today my finger is actually hurt.” She showed it to him, and he frowned.

“So you had another one of your dreams last night?”

“Oh yeah, but this time it was a terrible one,” she said, handing him the toast. She sat beside him, waiting for the coffee to be ready.

“Nightmares?”

“A nightmare within another nightmare.”

“Oh, that’s pretty strange.”

“Yeah… but at least I saw my mom in one of them.”

“Then it wasn’t all that bad.”

“Not that part. That part was beautiful. Everything else, though…it was vivid. The good and the terrifying.”

“Have you ever heard of lucid dreaming?” The old man asked curious.

Lyra frowned in confusion.

“When you feel like what you're experiencing isn't real, like you're dreaming, you should jump as high as you can. If you land back on the ground, then you're in the real world. But if you float… that’s how you know you’re dreaming.”

“What?” she laughed.

“Yes! Don’t mock this old man,” he said with a playful glare. “You have to make it a habit, do it during your daily life. That way, you’ll be able to do it in your dreams too.”

“Okay, but what’s the point of doing it in a dream?”

“Well, if you realize you’re dreaming, you can take control. You won’t let the creatures get to you, you’re the one in charge. You gain power.”

“That actually sounds good,” Lyra admitted as she got up to check the coffee, which was finally ready.

Mr. Buford glanced at the toast she made for him, but didn’t touch it. A shadow of sadness crossed his face again.

As Lyra placed a cup of coffee gently in his hands, she told him she wouldn’t be able to stay and chat that morning, she really was running late for work.

“Don’t worry, dear. Just one last favor? Would you mind helping me out to the porch? I’d like to sit and read outside for a while.”

“Of course.” As she helped him walk, Lyra felt an overwhelming urge to cry, but she didn’t know why. A heavy black hole formed in her chest, taking away her peace and happiness.

“Which book would you like?” she asked, trying to focus on the task to hold back the tears.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream, if you’d be so kind.”

“Again?” She smiled, already heading back inside to grab it from the bookshelf.

“My favorite,” she heard him call from outside.

The living room was lined with towering bookshelves that reached all the way to the ceiling. Mr. Buford was an avid reader, thanks to him, Lyra had discovered many incredible authors and stories. Standing in front of the shelves, she let a couple of tears fall freely. Frustrated and confused, she wiped them away with her sweater sleeve.

“You probably know it by heart by now,” she said aloud, forcing a light tone as she returned and handed him the worn copy of the book. 

And as he ran his hand over the cover, Mr. Buford recited:

"Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

Are of imagination all compact."

They both fell silent for a moment. The atmosphere still felt strange to Lyra.

“Mr. Buford, are you feeling alright?”

“Yes, dear. Don’t worry about me. Now go on, I don’t want you getting fired because of me.”

Impulsively, she gave the old man a warm, heartfelt hug before saying goodbye. He hugged her back, and her urge to cry only grew stronger. It was the same feeling she’d had at her mother’s funeral and she didn’t like it.

“Oh! Could you please bring me one of those delicious pies from the café when you’re done for the day?” he asked before she disappeared from view, with the intention of cheering up their moods.

“Of course!” And she walked away, unaware of the worried look on her dear neighbor’s face.

Back at home, she put a small bandage on her burned finger, still confused about how it had happened. She headed down to the kitchen and noticed the kettle had more water than usual. She remembered drinking tea in her dream, but the tea box was still sealed. Feeling the air grow heavy again, she jumped high, just like Mr. Buford had suggested. She laughed at herself when her feet landed solidly back on the floor.

Every day, Lyra worked the morning shift at a café not far from her house. Usually, she walked there, but today she had to ride her bike, for time wasn’t on her side.

Once the early rush passed, when long lines formed with people grabbing coffee before work, the shift would slow down and she’d run the front counter alone. Only one other employee remained in the kitchen, handling the food orders.

The customers were the usual ones: a group of elderly friends who gathered like clockwork to chat; a young woman in her thirties working from home at the most secluded table; a mom taking her fifteen-minute break with a cup of cappuccino after dropping her kids off at school; some gentlemen who had been there since opening time, quietly reading their newspapers. Everyone knew her, and she knew them all. She enjoyed her job, it was calm, and she had plenty of time to read or get lost in her thoughts.

When the morning rush died down and her regulars settled into their spots, she pulled out a black notebook adorned with golden and pink flowers from her backpack. On the first page was the title Dream Journal, written in her own hand. With a black pen, she began a new entry about the strange nightmares from the night before, her dream within a dream. Writing down her dreams was something her mother had always encouraged her to do, and though she didn’t fully understand why, she kept the habit because it somehow brought her comfort.

What she enjoyed most was drawing the creatures and scenes from her dream world. She always remembered everything in vivid detail and had a natural talent for drawing. “A gift,” her mother called it, since she had never taken any art classes yet managed to create beautiful work. It was innate, natural.

She lost track of time whenever she dedicated herself to this activity. Soon, the table was covered with blank sheets of paper, charcoal, pencils, and various pens. Among the pages were sketches of a pumpkin, a man with teeth in his eyes, and perhaps a few beings that resembled demons, but also some beautiful creatures.

The customers were used to this and didn’t mind having to call her more than once to refill their coffee or place another order. She was drawing the dragon from her nightmare when she heard the deep, gravelly voice of a man.

“Excuse me…”

Lyra felt a little dizzy in his presence. When she looked up, there he was a tall, pale man dressed entirely in black. He definitely stood out.

“Good morning,” Lyra replied. “What can I get for you?”

The man smiled faintly, giving off a pleasant vibe. “Maybe… a coffee, please.” His voice could be terrifying but smooth at the same time.

“Of course,” Lyra said. “Daily coffee special?”

He nodded only once.

“Sugar?” she asked as she poured the liquid into the cup in front of him.

The customer didn’t answer, he seemed almost dazed, staring at Lyra’s drawings spread out on the counter.

“Sir? Sugar?” The girl’s gentle voice brought him back.

“No. Black, please.”

Lyra followed his gaze and felt a flush of embarrassment as she realized he was looking at her drawings.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching out to cover and put them away. “Usually, no one comes in at this hour, and I took the liberty of… doing other things.” She felt vulnerable that someone had seen them.

“Please, do not apologize,” he said, still looking her in the eyes, though she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Are you the creator of these illustrations?”

“Yes,” Lyra replied, noticing the strange way he spoke. “But these aren’t really meant to be seen by others.”

“I apologize if I was rude. I didn’t mean to be imprudent.”

“It’s okay,” she said sincerely.

“If you would permit me, I must express that your illustrations are truly extraordinary, among the finest I have ever had the pleasure to behold in my lifetime.”

She blushed, because somehow she knew in her heart that the man meant it honestly.

“May I ask what is the source of your remarkably creative ideas?”

“Hmm… what?” She laughed. “…I think it all comes from my dreams,” she answered. She no longer felt embarrassed, in fact, she felt a certain peace in his presence.

A faint smile appeared on the mysterious man’s face.

“Do you dream often?”

She laughed again. “More than I’d like.”

“What is that?” He asked, pointing to a particular drawing that called his attention: a vertical cross with an oval at the top. An ankh, the cross of life, the symbol of his sister, Death. He frowned, puzzled.

“I honestly have no idea. I dreamed it last night and just sketched it down. I should probably google it to see if it means anything. Maybe I watched a TV show or something…”

One of the men reading the newspaper interrupted them, calling her over to ask for more coffee.

“Excuse me…” she said, stepping away. “I’ll be right back with you, sir.”

Lyra felt a spark of excitement at the thought of continuing the conversation with the man. But when she returned, his seat was empty. In his place, he had left behind a very elegant ink pen, which she tucked into her belongings, assuming he’d be back. What she didn’t notice was the faint trail of sand scattered across the bench where he had been sitting.

The day dragged on slowly. Lyra was exhausted, and the dark circles under her eyes became even more prominent. She looked sick and that’s exactly how she felt: weak. Also, her chest had felt heavy throughout the day, as if something terrible had happened. Her kitchen coworker offered to take her home, but she refused, thinking that riding her bike would help her sleep better. She needed rest, but at the same time, she no longer wanted to dream, she was fed up with the nightmares. 

Halfway through her ride, she remembered Mr. Buford’s pie and had to turn back to the café. It delayed her, but it felt important. And truthfully, something deep inside her resisted the idea of seeing him right away. That same unease from her nightmare had begun to stir again.

it was already somewhat late by the time she arrived at her neighbor’s house. She knocked a couple of times, but no one answered, so she decided to go in.

“Mr. Buford?” she whispered, thinking he might be asleep.

She started turning on the lights as she walked, as it was too dark to see anything. When she switched on the living room light, she dropped the box of the pie on the floor and let out a stifled scream.

Mr. Buford was there, sitting in his favorite spot. He seemed asleep, but Lyra knew he wasn’t. She stood there, unable to move.

“Mr. Buford?” she called out a few more times, even though she knew there would be no answer. Her vision blurred, there were too many tears in her eyes. Before approaching him, she tried to jump, just as he had suggested earlier. Lyra wished she could fly, so that would mean it was all a dream, but her feet landed back on the floor, solid and real.

Slowly, she approached him and touched his shoulder, trying to wake him, but he didn’t move. On the floor lay A Midsummer Night’s Dream, open, so she guessed he had died reading. She picked up the book and caught sight of a particular passage:

Are you sure

That we are awake?

It seems to me

That yet we sleep, we dream.

She could no longer hold back the bitter tears that had been consuming her since morning.

“Oh no, poor little one. She did bring me the pie I asked for,” Mr. Buford said with sadness, reaching for the box on the floor, but he was already in another dimension, where Lyra could neither hear nor see him. “Maybe I shouldn’t have… I had a feeling there wasn’t much time left for me…”

Standing right behind him was the figure of an Afro-descendant woman with curly, voluminous hair, dressed entirely in black. Her presence was not cold or frightening, but serene, almost comforting. Around her neck hung a pendant in the shape of an ankh, the same cross Lyra had drawn.

“Will she be all right?” Mr. Buford asked.

“I am quite certain that she will,” Death replied in a warm voice.

“She’s so alone… but she is a very special young woman.”

“More than you can imagine,” she answered. At that moment, Death sensed the strong presence of one of her brothers. Morpheus was in the house, but she chose to ignore it, knowing he was standing just behind the wall, hiding in the shadows. After all, he was respecting her sister’s duty, waiting for her to finish her task.

“Are you ready?” she asked the deceased.

“Yes,” he replied, smiling. Before departing, he spoke to Lyra, although he knew she couldn’t hear him: “Thank you for everything, young lady. Before the love of my life passed away, I didn’t think I had any reason left to stay. But you… your visits, your kindness…they gave me something to look forward to. You listened when no one else did. You read the books I loved, and you made me feel seen. You gave an old man a few more years of warmth. You’re a rare soul in this world full of tragedies. Please… take care of yourself, don’t let it ruin you. “Then, addressing Death, he added: “That’s all I wanted to say, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for letting me wait.”

Death smiled gently, unfolded her wings, and embraced Mr. Buford in them. Lyra felt a terrible emptiness in her chest and sank to the floor in a seated collapse. The room became cold for her, it was again the same sensation she had felt in her last dream, she even heard the wings. The shock startled her quickly to her feet, she closed the book with care and placed it in his lap.

“Rest in peace, Mr. Buford,” she said still in tears, before exiting the room to call 911.

Death observed everything with sorrow in her eyes. The Dream Lord emerged from his spot, with an expression of immense fury.

“You knew it?”

“Hello, Dream.” Death tried to ease the atmosphere. “Long time no see.”

“How long have you known?” he asked his sister.

“Since I held her mother in my wings,” she confessed with a sigh.

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was not up to me… she didn’t want you to know, and I could not interfere.”

“But she is my daughter,” he said, restraining his anger. “I had the right to know.”

“She hid her from you for a reason. I was simply honoring her wish.”

Lyra, phone in hand, rushed back into the room and froze, her eyes fixed in confusion on Mr. Buford’s body. Then, she quickly turned and stared directly at the two Eternal siblings, both of whom looked genuinely surprised. For a moment, they thought she could see them.

A voice on the other end of the line pulled her from her trance.

“Yes,” Lyra said, “I’m sorry, I thought I heard something… I arrived at his house and found him like this… he was perfectly fine this morning… I’m his neighbor…” she continued, stepping out of the room again.

“Can she feel us?” Death asked quietly.

“More than that. I believe she sensed your presence at least since the day before.”

Death was puzzled: “How?” 

“Through a dream.”

Soon enough, the house was bathed in flashing police and ambulance lights. Death and Dream remained in place, watching over Lyra as she answered questions from an officer, tears were still pouring down her face.

“She’s a very kind mortal, you know?” Death said, breaking the silence. “The one soul I just guided, he waited to cross, just so he could thank her for existing. I granted that wish to him… perhaps only because she’s my niece.”

Dream remained still, silently watching his daughter from afar. His demeanor was still tinged with displeasure.

“I’m sorry, Dream. I truly couldn’t tell you.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

“But you should know,” she continued softly, “that from the moment I found out, I never left her alone. I’ve been watching her… protecting her.”

“Thank you,” Dream said after a long silence, and eagerly followed his daughter to the other side of the street, where Lyra sat on the porch steps of her house, sobbing quietly.

She didn’t want to go inside, she was scared. It felt like reliving her nightmare from the night before. The entire day had felt surreal, dreamlike… and now Mr. Buford was gone. She felt unbearably alone in the world. She didn’t want to call anyone and had already turned down a few neighbors who offered to let her spend the night in their homes.

“Mom?” she said without thinking, as she sensed a presence around her. Unbeknownst to her, she raised her gaze toward where The Sandman, her father, stood. His eyes watered by that action. 

It was Nyx’s hiss that snapped her out of it, and she decided to step fully into her home, a little bit freaked out. Once the two Eternal siblings crossed the door following her, the cat began to hiss again and behave defensively, acting very unsettled.

“Please, Nyx, stop that, or you’ll sleep outside. I’m already scared enough.” Dream stared at the cat, and it instantly grew sluggish and unsteady, as though a sudden drowsiness had dulled his senses.

Lyra decided to take an ice-cold shower (despite hating cold water), trying her hardest to stay awake. More than ever, the thought of dreaming terrified her. She brewed coffee, loaded it with sugar, and turned the TV on to a loud, noisy program, keeping every light in the house turned on.

“She fears sleep,” Sandman said sadly, still watching her intently without even blinking. To know that his daughter feared dreams made him feel like a failure. 

Death paced slowly around the room, stopping at a particular photograph, one where Lyra posed with happiness, hugged by her mother. Sandman appeared behind her.

“I was unaware she had died. You could had told me.” He was angry and in pain. These words weighed heavily on his sister. “Somehow she managed to block me when we parted ways, and in doing so, she also shielded…our daughter from me.”

“Her name is Lyra,” Death said gently.

“Lyra.” He repeated fondly. 

Dream found himself drawn to the family photos throughout the house. He paused at one where his former partner cradled Lyra as a newborn. He saved that image into his mind, preserving it for all eternity.

“What will you do now?” Death asked. “You know I’m with you no matter what.”

Dream frowned to that last statement, he hold resentment to her.

“If this secret has been kept hidden for such an extended period, even from me, her father, we must endeavor to maintain its confidentiality for as long as possible, even from her. That’s for her own safety.”

“It won’t be easy, but I agree,” his sister replied, glancing at Lyra’s troubled face.

“For now,” the father continued, “Lyra shall sleep and rest as she, the daughter of the Lord of Dreams, rightfully deserves: secure within his realm, which is hers as well.”

And as he took a handful of sand from his pouch, he commanded: “Fiddler’s Green, my most beautiful creation, present your finest to her.”

With a gentle breath of dream-sand upon her face, Lyra sank into deep slumber in her armchair.