Every night, she dreamed of the same place. A small village nestled between two mountains, where the sky was always a deep shade of violet and the air carried the scent of something sweet and unfamiliar. The houses were made of wood and stone, their roofs slanting like the backs of old cats. The people there never spoke, only moved in slow, deliberate motions, as if caught in some silent ritual. She would walk through the narrow streets, feeling the weight of the dream pressing against her chest, and then wake up with the taste of copper on her tongue. At first, she thought it was just stress or lack of sleep. But the dreams grew more vivid, more persistent. She began to notice patterns—each night, the village changed slightly. One day, the river that ran through it had turned black; another, the trees had grown taller, their branches reaching toward the sky like fingers. She tried to remember what happened in the dream, but the details always slipped away, like water through her fingers. One evening, she found herself standing at the edge of the village square, where a stone fountain stood. The water inside was still, reflecting the sky above. As she approached, the reflection shifted. Instead of her face, she saw a woman with long, dark hair and eyes that seemed too large for her head. The woman smiled, and the dream dissolved around her. She woke up gasping, her sheets soaked with sweat. The next night, she tried to stay asleep longer, hoping to catch more of the dream. When she finally drifted back into sleep, she found herself in the same village, but this time, the houses were empty. No one was there. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of her own breathing. She wandered through the streets, calling out, but no one answered. Then she heard a voice—soft, almost a whisper. "You're not supposed to be here." She turned, but there was no one behind her. The voice came again, closer this time. "You should leave before it's too late." She tried to run, but the ground beneath her feet became soft, like mud. The deeper she walked, the harder it was to move. The sky above darkened, and the buildings began to twist, their shapes bending unnaturally. Then she saw them—figures, tall and thin, moving silently along the edges of the village. Their faces were blank, their mouths open in silent screams. She woke up screaming, her heart pounding. The room was dark, the walls cold. She looked at the clock—it was 3:07 a.m. She tried to shake off the fear, but the dream lingered in her mind. That night, she decided to stay awake until morning, determined to avoid the dream altogether. But sleep came anyway, creeping in like a shadow. This time, the village was different. It was smaller, almost forgotten. The houses had collapsed into piles of rubble, and the air smelled of decay. She walked through the ruins, her boots crunching on broken glass. At the center of the village, there was a tree, its trunk twisted and gnarled. Something pulsed inside it, like a heartbeat. She reached out, and the bark split open, revealing a glowing red light. Then she saw them—children, standing in a circle around the tree. Their eyes were closed, their hands clasped. They were not real, she realized, but they were watching her. One of them opened their eyes and stared directly at her. The dream ended abruptly, and she awoke in a cold sweat. She began to research the dream, searching online for similar experiences. She found forums where people talked about recurring dreams of places they had never seen. Some called them "dream towns," others "echoes." No one could explain them, but many described the same sense of familiarity, as if they had been there before. One post mentioned a man who claimed the dream took him to a town that no longer existed, a place erased from maps and memory. The more she read, the more she felt connected to the dream. It wasn’t just a dream anymore—it was something else, something waiting for her. She started leaving small objects in her room—a photograph, a piece of paper, a key. She wondered if they would appear in the dream, if the village would recognize them. One night, she found the key in the dream. It was lying on the ground near the fountain. When she picked it up, the water rippled, and the reflection in the fountain showed her holding it. The woman from before was still there, smiling. "You’ve come back," she said. "But you don’t belong here." The next morning, she woke up with the key in her hand. It was rusted, ancient, and cold to the touch. She didn’t know where it came from, but she knew it wasn’t hers. She placed it on her desk, wondering what it unlocked. The dream returned every night after that, growing more intense. The village became clearer, more real. The people, once silent, now spoke in a language she couldn’t understand. The children in the circle no longer watched her—they beckoned her forward. One night, she followed them. The path led to the tree, the same one she had seen before. The children stepped aside, and the tree’s bark opened, revealing a hollow space inside. Inside, there was a door. She hesitated. She could feel the pull, the invitation. But something deep inside told her that once she went through, she might not come back. The dream ended, and she woke up, heart pounding, the key still in her hand. She looked at it, then at the door in her mind. Somewhere, in the depths of the dream, the village waited. And she knew, one day, she would have to go back.