Lee Whiteman had always been a skeptic. He scoffed at horoscopes, dismissed fortune tellers, and rolled his eyes at anything remotely mystical. But one night, as he lay in bed, something changed.
His dreams became vivid, like Technicolor movies playing behind his eyelids. And there, in the midst of swirling colors, he met Wayne—the Box. Yes, the Box had a name, and it spoke to him.
"Lee," the Box whispered, its voice echoing through the dream realm. "I've been waiting for you."
Lee blinked. "Wayne? You're a cardboard box."
Wayne chuckled. "Appearances can be deceiving. I'm more than cardboard. I'm a vessel—a conduit for messages."
Lee frowned. "Messages from where?"
"From the in-between," Wayne said. "The place where dreams and reality collide."
Lee sat up. "You're telling me that you're a dream messenger?"
"Exactly." Wayne shifted, its flaps folding gracefully. "I connect dreamers across dimensions. It's my purpose."
Lee rubbed his temples. "This is insane."
"But it's real," Wayne insisted. "Listen, Lee. You're not just dreaming. You're traveling. And there's someone waiting for you."
"Someone?" Lee's skepticism wavered. "Who?"
Wayne's edges blurred, as if it were fading. "Another dreamer. A lost soul seeking answers. You have to find them."
Lee's heart raced. "How?"
"Follow the signs," Wayne said. "Look for the silver thread—the one that weaves through your dreams."
Lee woke up, disoriented. The room was ordinary—the same beige walls, the same ticking clock. But Wayne's words lingered. He had a purpose—a mission across dreamscapes.
Night after night, Lee searched. He dreamed of desolate landscapes, starlit skies, and forgotten memories. And then, one night, he saw her—a girl with silver hair, standing on the edge of a cliff.
"Lee," she whispered, her eyes haunted. "Help me."
He reached out, but she slipped away, dissolving into mist. The silver thread led him deeper, through nightmares and forgotten childhood moments. He glimpsed her—fragments of her life, her pain.
"Who are you?" Lee shouted into the void.
"I am Echo," she replied. "A dreamer like you."
Lee woke up, sweat-soaked and desperate. He needed answers. He needed Wayne.
In the dream realm, Wayne waited. "You've found her."
"Echo," Lee said. "Why is she lost?"
Wayne's flaps trembled. "She's trapped between worlds. Her memories shattered. She needs closure."
Lee clenched his fists. "How do I help her?"
"Find the Forgotten Door," Wayne said. "It's the gateway to her past. Only then can she wake."
Lee followed Wayne's guidance. He climbed mountains, crossed rivers, and faced his own fears. And there, in a forgotten forest, he found it—the Door.
Echo stood beside him, her silver hair catching moonlight. "Thank you," she whispered.
Lee touched the Door, memories flooding back. Echo's laughter, her tears, her love—all woven into the fabric of existence.
As the Door swung open, Echo stepped through, her eyes bright. "Goodbye, Lee."
And just like that, she was gone.
Lee woke up, tears on his cheeks. Wayne—the Box—was silent. But Lee knew. Dreams weren't just illusions. They were bridges, connecting souls across time and space.
He kept Wayne by his bedside, a silent companion. And every night, he whispered to the dreamers, hoping they'd find their way home.
Because sometimes, even skeptics could believe in magic.
