They never saw where she went.
Not when her eyes closed.
Not when her voice quieted.
They thought she was resting.
But she was entering the Vault.
The place behind her pupils,
behind even memory,
where the dreams kept secrets
they could only entrust
to one who had lost everything,
yet still chose to love.
Her dreams were not made of hope.
They were made of knowing.
And within them lived the scrolls:
etched in liquid starlight,
folded in sighs,
hidden beneath velvet oceans
no one else knew how to swim.
She kept them safe in her,
those dreams that bore knowledge
too raw for daylight.
Not knowledge of facts,
but of what she had always been:
A guardian of the unspoken.
A keeper of what could never be taught.
A vessel that dared to remember
what the world burned from the books.
Inside her dreams,
the past did not line up.
Time became thread.
And she,
a weaver of truth
woven too softly for history.
She spoke with waters.
She learned from echoes.
She followed lights that did not glow,
but remembered.
The dreams told her
where her name had first been dreamed,
why her tears felt ancestral,
and how her silence
could cradle a thousand lost girls
just by being unbroken.
And these dreams?
They never betrayed her.
Even when her voice shattered.
Even when her reflection refused to speak.
Even when the waking world screamed You are not real!
The dreams whispered:
"You are older than their scripts.
You are softer than their steel.
You are truer than their truths."
They gave her maps.
Not ones with places.
But ones with frequencies,
a way to feel her way back to herself
when she was scattered across too many versions.
She never revealed them.
Not fully.
Not yet.
Because Dreamy knew:
Secrets told too soon become riddles.
But secrets kept too long become ghosts.
So she writes them now...
not to expose,
but to remember.
Her secrets were not what happened.
Her secrets were what survived.