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Patrick didn’t even remember having the dream until he was leaving work, let alone what it had been about.

His phone told him it was 4.36, which meant he’d spent the better part of eight hours staring at his phone when he thought no-one was looking, or at a softly shining computer screen if he figured they were. He was exhausted; last night he had stayed up until 3.05 browsing random spots on the internet, without reason. He could barely remember what he’d had for lunch. (It had been chicken schnitzel).

And yet, he remembered he’d had a dream, in those three hours of snatched sleep. He’d woken up from it filled with conviction, and known he was not going to work. He would call in sick, and work on what the dream had been about.
Somehow between that decision and breakfast he’d forgotten he’d made it, and now he was walking home.

What had he dreamed of? Vague impressions slid past his mind like sand through his fingers. There’d been love, and stars, and fire. And he’d woken up knowing… Something. Something important.

Maybe that’s all it had been. Dreams didn’t have to make sense.
Patrick looked up. From where he stood, just past his office building, there were three different streets he could walk down, and only one he ever had.

He chose one of the other two at random, and started walking.

*

Sweat clung cold to his back. It was a slick, slimy, winter sweat; the kind that comes out clammy in the wind and got worse once back inside. Patrick was not relishing arriving home; but then, he had no idea where he was, so no idea when that would be.

He was in a park, and to his left, past the gun-metal grey railing, was a dark, damp, rubbish-choked creek bed. This told him nothing; move five-hundred metres in any direction in any suburb of the city and you would run into the same park, and the same creek. There had been road-signs that he’d seen on the way here, but now Patrick somehow couldn’t remember what they’d said.

A young woman studiously avoided his eye as she walked her dog past him; in the other direction, a shirtless and stunningly attractive man was jogging past. Patrick wondered what home they were going to, and what they would be doing there.
He wondered what the dream had been about.

There’d been a woman in it; someone he’d loved. There’d been a piece of her in that dream so sharp and so exact that Patrick could not believe that it’d just been a memory. It had been a moment; a shard of shattered time that had – somehow – lodged itself inside his head, until the random eddies of his thoughts had brought it back. And though he knew that, he wasn’t certain what that piece had been. A smell? A crook of teeth? An eye colour? It had been something.

As a cricket droned from some hidden spot nearby, Patrick tried to remember who the girl had been. He threw himself back to his teen days, and listed the women he’d loved. Rachel? Ashleigh? Caitlin – well, that was never really love, but still.
There’d been another. Hadn’t there been another?

The thought stopped Patrick in his tracks. How could he have forgotten someone? There were hardly that many to choose from. He could feel her presence, her shape… The name was at the back of his tongue.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood in place, brow furrowed, willing that name and that person back to his mind. How could he lose a whole person? Someone he’d loved? He could feel her nearness.

A possum scurried past the road, and Patrick jumped. The sun was starting to set, and it was getting cold. He needed to get home.

He would keep following the creek bed. The way the clouds were burning pink and orange before him told him he was heading west. He didn’t know if that was towards home or away from it, but it should be easier enough to work out once he hit somewhere he recognised.
Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to look at his phone. He’d seen it enough.

*

The sky was bruised purple and the first stars coming out when Patrick hit the river.
He’d crossed from parks to suburban streets to main roads; all spots that were vaguely familiar, but none that gave him a definite indication of which way to go. From the river it should be easy enough to navigate, though; Patrick got his bearings with a glance, and finally turned his face to his house.

It couldn’t have been more than half an hour since it had gone, but he already missed the sunset. While it had been there, it had been beautiful, and for just a moment he’d thought that maybe he could capture that, if he remembered the way how, and share it with someone. He’d have ended up settling for the next person he passed; but by the time that person came, the light had faded to twilight and Patrick found he couldn’t remember any details of what it had come from, beside the fact that it had been beautiful. And what was a word like that next to a sunset?

There hadn’t been a sunset in the dream; but there had been stars. Patrick tried to think why, when he was seized by a sense of foreboding. He’d thought this way before, and it hadn’t ended well.

He shook his head to dismiss the feeling. There had been stars. A group of them. They’d been friends with Patrick, and told him secrets. They’d told him…

Something. Something important. Patrick sighed and gave up; he couldn’t bring it back now, and the wind was beginning to bite. He should hurry back.

Hurry back to a quick-cooked meal, a few bites of small-talk with his housemates, and a softly glowing screen waiting to steal his sleep. At least it would be warm.
But which way was it? He had decided only a moment ago, but now he couldn’t recognise anything. He couldn’t even remember which direction he’d been walking in.
Above his head, the street lights began to flicker on, one after the other, without following any real pattern. One way was better-lit than the other; Patrick followed the light.

Along the way, he tried to bring back the parts of the stolen dream. Hadn’t there been stars?

*

Patrick’s feet were sore as he moved past the heart of the city.

He was half-way over a bridge; he didn’t remember starting to cross it. He didn’t recognise the bridge. He didn’t know how far from his house he was; he wasn’t entirely certain he could remember what his house looked like, if he passed it. He had just been following the lights.

Something was nagging at the back of his head about lights; some story about what happened to those who followed them, but for the life of him Patrick couldn’t think what the rest of it was. That frightened him. Memories of a day were one thing, but stories? He’d loved stories since he was a boy.

Patrick took his phone from his pocket without a plan. Who could he call? What would he say? That he didn’t understand what was happening? That he couldn’t remember a dream?
Lost. He was just tell someone he was lost. They might not understand, but they would still be able to help.

The screen on his phone asked him for his passcode.

For a moment, Patrick looked down at that little glow, until it faded to black again. He’d wasted days staring into this phone. Every day at work he fought a losing battle against staring into its glow, knowing that people would think the less of him if he did.
Patrick screamed as he threw it into the river, and for a moment didn’t even care if anyone heard him.

*

Each footfall was harder than the one that had come before it.

Patrick stood in front of the ocean, on some grimy beach, next to some grimy industrial district. A huge concrete pipe disgorged sludge out into the sea beside him. Somewhere along the line he’d lost his shirt, and his shoes. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know what they’d looked like.

The stars were winking out, and over the sea a pale dawn was threatening.

Patrick followed the light, and the waves closed over his head.

*

Beneath the sea, the moments floated past him like butterflies caught in amber. The ground beneath his feet was paved with them. They were his, he knew. Or he thought they had been his. Maybe they’d been here all along, and he’d only ever glimpsed at them.
He was still walking. Now he walked along an old path, leading to somewhere he knew. Behind him, the lights were flickering out, one by one. He knew that was supposed to be important.

The darkness would catch him soon.

Here, laid out bear, he saw just how many of the moments there were. How many chances and pictures of things that were. He saw the beautiful things he’d done, and he saw the times he’d thought and seen the world clearly and felt its beat. He watched as they grew less and less. Before his eyes they floated away.

There was only one light left, now.

It was a soft, blue-white, and its glare drowned out the moments and through everything else into shadow. It was so familiar; something about it, the smell or the colour or the crook of its teeth sent shivers down the boy’s spine. He’d been following this wisp his whole life.

Last night, he’d thought of love, and fire, and the stars. But it hardly seemed important now.

He closed his eyes and opened his arms, and welcomed the light like an old friend.

Description
Patrick didn’t even remember having the dream until he was leaving work, let alone what it had been about.

His phone told him it was 4.36, which meant he’d spent the better part of eight hours staring at his phone when he thought no-one was looking, or at a softly shining computer screen if he figured they were. He was exhausted; last night he had stayed up until 3.05 browsing random spots on the internet, without reason. He could barely remember what he’d had for lunch. (It had been chicken schnitzel).

And yet, he remembered he’d had a dream, in those three hours of snatched sleep. He’d woken up from it filled with conviction, and known he was not going to work. He would call in sick, and work on what the dream had been about.
Somehow between that decision and breakfast he’d forgotten he’d made it, and now he was walking home.

What had he dreamed of? Vague impressions slid past his mind like sand through his fingers. There’d been love, and stars, and fire. And he’d woken up knowing… Something. Something important.

Maybe that’s all it had been. Dreams didn’t have to make sense.
Patrick looked up. From where he stood, just past his office building, there were three different streets he could walk down, and only one he ever had.

He chose one of the other two at random, and started walking.

*

Sweat clung cold to his back. It was a slick, slimy, winter sweat; the kind that comes out clammy in the wind and got worse once back inside. Patrick was not relishing arriving home; but then, he had no idea where he was, so no idea when that would be.

He was in a park, and to his left, past the gun-metal grey railing, was a dark, damp, rubbish-choked creek bed. This told him nothing; move five-hundred metres in any direction in any suburb of the city and you would run into the same park, and the same creek. There had been road-signs that he’d seen on the way here, but now Patrick somehow couldn’t remember what they’d said.

A young woman studiously avoided his eye as she walked her dog past him; in the other direction, a shirtless and stunningly attractive man was jogging past. Patrick wondered what home they were going to, and what they would be doing there.
He wondered what the dream had been about.

There’d been a woman in it; someone he’d loved. There’d been a piece of her in that dream so sharp and so exact that Patrick could not believe that it’d just been a memory. It had been a moment; a shard of shattered time that had – somehow – lodged itself inside his head, until the random eddies of his thoughts had brought it back. And though he knew that, he wasn’t certain what that piece had been. A smell? A crook of teeth? An eye colour? It had been something.

As a cricket droned from some hidden spot nearby, Patrick tried to remember who the girl had been. He threw himself back to his teen days, and listed the women he’d loved. Rachel? Ashleigh? Caitlin – well, that was never really love, but still.
There’d been another. Hadn’t there been another?

The thought stopped Patrick in his tracks. How could he have forgotten someone? There were hardly that many to choose from. He could feel her presence, her shape… The name was at the back of his tongue.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood in place, brow furrowed, willing that name and that person back to his mind. How could he lose a whole person? Someone he’d loved? He could feel her nearness.

A possum scurried past the road, and Patrick jumped. The sun was starting to set, and it was getting cold. He needed to get home.

He would keep following the creek bed. The way the clouds were burning pink and orange before him told him he was heading west. He didn’t know if that was towards home or away from it, but it should be easier enough to work out once he hit somewhere he recognised.
Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to look at his phone. He’d seen it enough.

*

The sky was bruised purple and the first stars coming out when Patrick hit the river.
He’d crossed from parks to suburban streets to main roads; all spots that were vaguely familiar, but none that gave him a definite indication of which way to go. From the river it should be easy enough to navigate, though; Patrick got his bearings with a glance, and finally turned his face to his house.

It couldn’t have been more than half an hour since it had gone, but he already missed the sunset. While it had been there, it had been beautiful, and for just a moment he’d thought that maybe he could capture that, if he remembered the way how, and share it with someone. He’d have ended up settling for the next person he passed; but by the time that person came, the light had faded to twilight and Patrick found he couldn’t remember any details of what it had come from, beside the fact that it had been beautiful. And what was a word like that next to a sunset?

There hadn’t been a sunset in the dream; but there had been stars. Patrick tried to think why, when he was seized by a sense of foreboding. He’d thought this way before, and it hadn’t ended well.

He shook his head to dismiss the feeling. There had been stars. A group of them. They’d been friends with Patrick, and told him secrets. They’d told him…

Something. Something important. Patrick sighed and gave up; he couldn’t bring it back now, and the wind was beginning to bite. He should hurry back.

Hurry back to a quick-cooked meal, a few bites of small-talk with his housemates, and a softly glowing screen waiting to steal his sleep. At least it would be warm.
But which way was it? He had decided only a moment ago, but now he couldn’t recognise anything. He couldn’t even remember which direction he’d been walking in.
Above his head, the street lights began to flicker on, one after the other, without following any real pattern. One way was better-lit than the other; Patrick followed the light.

Along the way, he tried to bring back the parts of the stolen dream. Hadn’t there been stars?

*

Patrick’s feet were sore as he moved past the heart of the city.

He was half-way over a bridge; he didn’t remember starting to cross it. He didn’t recognise the bridge. He didn’t know how far from his house he was; he wasn’t entirely certain he could remember what his house looked like, if he passed it. He had just been following the lights.

Something was nagging at the back of his head about lights; some story about what happened to those who followed them, but for the life of him Patrick couldn’t think what the rest of it was. That frightened him. Memories of a day were one thing, but stories? He’d loved stories since he was a boy.

Patrick took his phone from his pocket without a plan. Who could he call? What would he say? That he didn’t understand what was happening? That he couldn’t remember a dream?
Lost. He was just tell someone he was lost. They might not understand, but they would still be able to help.

The screen on his phone asked him for his passcode.

For a moment, Patrick looked down at that little glow, until it faded to black again. He’d wasted days staring into this phone. Every day at work he fought a losing battle against staring into its glow, knowing that people would think the less of him if he did.
Patrick screamed as he threw it into the river, and for a moment didn’t even care if anyone heard him.

*

Each footfall was harder than the one that had come before it.

Patrick stood in front of the ocean, on some grimy beach, next to some grimy industrial district. A huge concrete pipe disgorged sludge out into the sea beside him. Somewhere along the line he’d lost his shirt, and his shoes. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know what they’d looked like.

The stars were winking out, and over the sea a pale dawn was threatening.

Patrick followed the light, and the waves closed over his head.

*

Beneath the sea, the moments floated past him like butterflies caught in amber. The ground beneath his feet was paved with them. They were his, he knew. Or he thought they had been his. Maybe they’d been here all along, and he’d only ever glimpsed at them.
He was still walking. Now he walked along an old path, leading to somewhere he knew. Behind him, the lights were flickering out, one by one. He knew that was supposed to be important.

The darkness would catch him soon.

Here, laid out bear, he saw just how many of the moments there were. How many chances and pictures of things that were. He saw the beautiful things he’d done, and he saw the times he’d thought and seen the world clearly and felt its beat. He watched as they grew less and less. Before his eyes they floated away.

There was only one light left, now.

It was a soft, blue-white, and its glare drowned out the moments and through everything else into shadow. It was so familiar; something about it, the smell or the colour or the crook of its teeth sent shivers down the boy’s spine. He’d been following this wisp his whole life.

Last night, he’d thought of love, and fire, and the stars. But it hardly seemed important now.

He closed his eyes and opened his arms, and welcomed the light like an old friend.