Dream Dealers

Milo’s hands trembled as he opened the door to the dimly lit shop, its sign flickering overhead: Lucid Exchange. In the heart of a city that never truly slept, this unmarked, graffiti-riddled alley housed one of its darkest secrets—dream dealing.

Inside, the air smelled of lavender and something faintly metallic, like blood. Shelves lined with glass orbs shimmered faintly, each swirling with its own dreamscape: colors, shapes, and fragments of emotions trapped in motion. Behind the counter stood a woman, her hair an iridescent cascade of blue and silver, her eyes reflecting infinite stars.

“You’re late,” she said, without looking up.

“Sorry,” Milo muttered, his voice dry. He placed a crumpled wad of cash on the counter. “I need something potent tonight. No fluff.”

The woman—known only as Lyra—raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite the request. Last week, you barely handled a peaceful meadow.”

Milo flushed. “I’m ready for more. Just… give me something real.”

She studied him, her gaze piercing. “Real? Dreams don’t get more real than the nightmares I sell. You want beauty, terror, ecstasy, or regret?”

“Something intense,” Milo said. “I want to feel alive again.”

Lyra smirked and turned to the shelves. Her fingers danced across the orbs, finally plucking one that glowed a deep, molten red. “This,” she said, holding it up, “is the dream of a soldier who survived a war but couldn’t escape it. You’ll live every second of his memories—fear, adrenaline, and everything in between. Be warned: it’ll leave a mark.”

Milo hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll take it.”

“Not so fast,” Lyra said, tucking the orb behind her. “The price is more than money.”

“I’ve got more cash—”

“Not cash,” she interrupted. “A fragment of your dreams in return. That’s the deal here. You trade your own possibilities for someone else’s.”

Milo froze. He’d heard whispers of this—how dream dealers didn’t just sell dreams but also harvested them. He clenched his fists. “Fine. Take it.”

Lyra tilted her head. “Careful, Milo. Every dream you give up is a piece of your soul you’ll never get back.”

He swallowed hard but nodded. “I’m sure.”

Lyra leaned close, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You think so now. But everyone regrets it eventually.”

She placed a delicate device on the counter—a small, crystalline helmet with wires that shimmered like cobwebs. Milo slid it over his head and closed his eyes as Lyra activated the machine.

A soft hum filled the air, and Milo felt a gentle tug deep in his mind. It wasn’t painful, but it was unsettling, like a thread unraveling from a tightly woven fabric. When it was done, Lyra retrieved a faintly glowing blue orb from the machine and set it aside.

“This,” she said, handing him the red orb, “is yours now. Sweet dreams.”

---

That night, Milo placed the orb under his pillow, as instructed, and drifted into sleep.

He awoke in a battlefield. Smoke choked the air, and the deafening roar of gunfire filled his ears. He wasn’t Milo anymore—he was someone else, someone running through the chaos with a rifle in hand. His heart pounded as explosions erupted around him. The ground beneath his feet was slippery with blood.

Fear gripped him, but it wasn’t just fear—it was exhilaration. Every breath, every heartbeat, felt sharper, more vivid. He could taste the metallic tang of adrenaline, feel the scorching heat of a nearby blast.

Then came the guilt. He stood over an enemy soldier, the man’s eyes wide with terror, pleading silently for mercy. The rifle in his hands felt impossibly heavy. Milo wanted to stop, to drop the weapon, but his body moved on its own. He pulled the trigger.

The man crumpled, lifeless.

Milo screamed, and the dream shifted. Now he was alone in a darkened room, staring into a cracked mirror. His reflection was bloodied and hollow-eyed, whispering, “You can’t run from this.”

When he woke, his sheets were soaked with sweat. His body ached as if he’d truly been on that battlefield. He sat up, breathing hard, and ran a trembling hand through his hair.

It had been real—too real.

---

The next night, he returned to the Lucid Exchange, his eyes wild. “Take it back,” he demanded, slamming the red orb onto the counter.

Lyra looked up from her work, unimpressed. “No refunds, Milo. You got what you asked for.”

“It’s too much,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can’t handle it.”

Lyra leaned forward, her expression softening slightly. “That’s the thing about dreams—they show you parts of yourself you don’t want to see.”

“I didn’t want this,” Milo snapped.

“Didn’t you?” Lyra asked. “You said you wanted to feel alive again. That’s what war is. Life in its rawest, most brutal form.”

Milo slumped against the counter. “What do I do now?”

Lyra tapped the blue orb she’d taken from him before. “You could buy back your own dream.”

He stared at it. “What was it?”

She smiled faintly. “Something simple. A quiet night under the stars, with someone you used to love. It’s peaceful, beautiful… but it’s not free.”

“How much?”

Lyra’s eyes glinted. “More than you’re willing to pay.”

Milo hesitated, then shook his head. “I’ll find another way.”

As he turned to leave, Lyra called after him, “Be careful, Milo. The more dreams you borrow, the less of yourself you’ll have left to dream with.”

But Milo didn’t look back. He didn’t need peace. He needed escape. And he knew he’d be back.

Note:
Thank you for reading “Dream Dealers”! This is the eighth story in a series created for avid readers and English learners who want to enjoy captivating tales while practicing their language skills. Stay tuned for more stories and language tips to enhance your journey!