As the echoes of Yang's scream faded into the outer corners of the dream realm, and the golden scar in the sky began to dim, Mother Goose and Father Hearth quietly took their leave.
Their departure left only one figure sitting in the toy-brick pavilion, his teacup untouched now. Lorien, still in the form of a pale child in a pristine butler's outfit, rose with deliberate calm. He dusted nonexistent crumbs from his sleeves, then turned without a word.
The realm shivered.
Not in fear—but in obedience.
With each step he took, the world changed around him.
The sky peeled away like parchment curling in firelight, revealing a shifting canvas of starlight and chalk drawings behind it. The hills bent and folded into themselves, becoming roads, then stairs, then rivers made of sleeping thoughts. Trees unspooled like yarn, reknitting themselves into bridges that led nowhere. The very laws of space and time yielded to Lorien's footsteps—not in rebellion, but in reverence.
The dream realm was closing itself like a book.
No longer the open, wandering space where dreams drifted wild and free—now it narrowed, focused, remembered.
Lorien passed murals painted in the mind of a child—castles on clouds, dragons with missing teeth, stars with names like "Bobby" and "Captain Sparkle." He walked through doors drawn with crayons and past windowpanes that looked out into memories of summers that never truly happened.
And then, the page stopped turning.
He arrived.
It was a room.
Simple. Soft. The kind of room any child might dream of. A rounded ceiling, like a dome, glowed with gentle light. The walls were papered with patterns of moons and rabbits and kites made of stardust. A low dresser in the corner held a glowing jar of caught fireflies and a book left open mid-story.
And in the center of the room, under a quilt made of patchwork dreams, was a bed.
It was a child's bed—crafted from warm, polished wood, carved with delicate shapes: clouds, stars, animals with smiling faces. Around the bed, as if standing guard, was an entourage of toys. Some plush, some wooden, some barely held together by buttons and thread.
A teddy bear with a stitched-up eye.
A clockwork knight with a missing leg.
A raggedy fox wearing a crown made of yarn.
A doll that glowed faintly with music box lullabies.
A line of painted soldiers standing at attention, though some had drooped with age.
They formed a soft perimeter around the bed, as though they knew their duty: to protect. To be present.
And on that bed, tucked beneath the quilt, slept the Child.
He looked so small. So gentle.
White hair tousled like clouds. Long lashes resting peacefully on pale cheeks. He looked, for all the world, like a mirror of Lorien himself—but younger. Vulnerable. Entirely unaware of the enormity of what he was.
His breathing was even. Light.
And with each rise and fall of his chest, the walls breathed with him. The world pulsed in harmony. Not metaphorically. Not poetically.
Literally.
This child's dreams were the Realm.
And Lorien… was the Keeper.
He stepped closer, each footfall silent, each motion precise. He moved through the circle of toys with care, his hands behind his back, as if afraid any disturbance might shift the balance of the universe.
He reached the side of the bed.
The boy stirred—just slightly—his brow furrowing, a tiny noise escaping his lips.
Lorien froze.
The room held still.
The realm around them hushed, like the world was clutching its chest.
But the child sighed, turned to his side, and settled once more.
Lorien didn't move for a long moment.
Then, with the grace of someone who has watched over countless centuries, he exhaled.
A slow, careful breath.
He reached out and gently straightened a corner of the quilt, tucking it a little tighter under the child's chin.
"You're still sleeping," he whispered.
His voice trembled—not with fear, but with fragile hope.
"Good. That's good."
Because if the child ever truly awakened…
Not even the children of chaos could predict what would happen. The dreams of mortals, the realms of gods, the stories of heroes—all of them could be unraveled in a blink.
This child did not imagine the world.
He remembered it.
And if he opened his eyes…
The dream would end.
And nothing—not time, not fire, not ink—could put it back.
Lorien stood slowly, casting one last glance at the sleeping child, then at the toys that remained faithfully still, watching, guarding.
"I'll keep watching," he said softly. "As I always do."
He turned and walked back through the folds of dream, and as he passed, the world began to unfold again—quietly, gently, as if resuming a song it dared not forget.
Behind him, the child slept on.
And the Realm of Dreams endured.