The City That Ate Its Dreams

No one remembers who built the city.

It stood between mountains that never had names, hidden under a sky that changed color with every passing hour — blue at dawn, golden by noon, and silver-black at midnight. The people called it Luthra, the City of Dreams.

It shimmered like glass and moved like smoke. Its streets floated above rivers of stars, and its towers hummed with the songs of forgotten lullabies. But behind its beauty lived an old, quiet fear.

Every year, on the night when both moons vanished from the sky, someone disappeared.

Not just their body — but their name, their voice, their memories. Gone from every mind. Every book. Every mirror.

No one questioned it. No one even dared to cry when someone vanished, because no one remembered they had ever existed.

Except once — Mira remembered.

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Mira was a baker, the kind who shaped her bread into little swans and gave the broken ones away to children. She lived in the lower part of the city, where dreams were smaller and the sky didn’t sing as loudly. Her life was quiet, made of cinnamon mornings and sugar-dusted afternoons.

But at night, Mira painted.

Not walls or paper — she painted the air. Using colors she mixed from moonlight and rose petals, crushed fireflies and sleep dust, she made skies no one had ever seen. Skies that bent gently, full of stars shaped like bells, clouds stitched like lace. Skies that whispered.

And she shared them with Tav.

Tav wasn’t like the others. He laughed too loud and talked too fast. He dreamed with his eyes open. He made bridges from string and planted feathers in the dirt just to see if they would grow wings. Mira thought maybe his heart was made of sunlight. He called her skies “windows to freedom.”

They never told anyone about their dreams. Dreaming too much in Luthra made you visible.

And in Luthra, visibility could be dangerous.

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Then came the Night of Devouring.

The moons disappeared. The city fell silent. And Tav was gone.

No one knew his name. No one had ever seen him, they said. There were no records. No whispers. Not even the scent of his scarf on Mira’s coat.

But Mira remembered.

Because that morning, her last sky painting had changed. The stars in it were falling — spelling one word: “Run.”

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She ran. Not away from the city, but into it — deeper than she ever had.

Past the floating markets that sold time in bottles. Past the stone gargoyles who blinked. Past the libraries where books whispered your name when you entered. Through alleys that changed direction when you weren’t looking. And doors that asked riddles instead of locks.

And there, in the belly of the city, she found it.

A heart.

Not made of flesh, but of clear, ancient glass — cracked and glowing faintly, like a tired star. It floated above a pool of still dreams — dreams that shivered when she looked at them. Some had eyes. Some had teeth. Some looked just like her own.

Mira reached out and touched the Heart.

And suddenly, she saw.

The city was alive. Not just with dreams, but with fear. Every dream that ever dared to grow too wild, too bright, too free — the city swallowed it. And the people who dreamed them? Erased. Forgotten. It had been like this for centuries.

Tav had dreamed too brightly. So had many others. The city feared what it could not control.

And Mira’s turn was next.

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But Mira smiled.

And then she did the one thing the city had never expected.

She shared her dream.

She opened the sky-painting and let it fly — over rooftops, into homes, into hearts. Tav’s laughter returned to the wind. The scent of his cinnamon tea filled the air. Her skies lit up windows and touched forgotten places in people’s minds.

Dreams began to wake up.

People gasped. Whispered. Some wept.

And the city — the proud, glittering Luthra — began to crack.

The towers trembled. The streets moaned. The glass Heart screamed once — and shattered.

The stolen dreams rose like smoke, then like birds, then like fire. They filled the sky — not to vanish, but to live. Each one carried a memory, a voice, a dream once lost.

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The next morning, Mira stood at her bakery, flour on her hands, a tired smile on her face.

Children passed by with bread shaped like stars and clouds. The air smelled of sugar and sky. Somewhere above the rooftops, two moons returned, glowing quietly.

No one knew how the curse had ended.

No one remembered the city ever eating dreams.

But Mira did.

And sometimes, on quiet nights, when the air felt just right, she painted the sky once more — just in case the city forgot again.

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🌙 Personal Note from the Author:

I wrote this story on a soft evening when my heart felt heavy and the world seemed too quiet. I wanted to remind myself — and maybe you — that even in the strangest, darkest places, imagination is light. Your dreams are not too small. Your voice is not invisible.

If this story stays with you even a little, then I think the city hasn’t won.

— Deepali 🤍

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✨ Author Reflection:

The City That Ate Its Dreams came from a simple question: What if the world punished us for dreaming too brightly? It’s a fantasy, yes, but also a reflection of how we sometimes hide our true selves to “fit in” — how society often fears originality and boldness. Mira’s courage is quiet but powerful. I hope readers see a piece of themselves in her — and remember that sharing their dreams might just change something.