From Leah’s Dreamworld Journal

In the quiet of the dreamworld, where time folds and whispers of what once was ripple through the ether, there is a memory I cannot let go of. A place where light and shadow dance as one, and the air hums with a melody only the heart can hear.

I remember the first time I wove a dream for myself.
Not for healing. Not for guiding. But for remembering.

The threads came easily, as if they had been waiting for me to pull them taut. Gold for the laughter that once filled my life. Silver for the love that lingered like starlight. And red, vibrant and raw, for the moments I wished I could undo.

I wove the dream of a day that never truly happened, but should have.
It was autumn. The air smelled of rain-soaked leaves and earth turning to rest. I stood in a field bathed in amber light, and there she was—Jara, running ahead, her laughter like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. Her small hands brushed against wildflowers, and every step she took seemed to breathe life into the world.

Malik stood at the edge of the field, his silhouette outlined by the setting sun. His face—once so familiar, now fractured by pain and choices—was soft again, untouched by shadows. He didn’t speak, but his eyes said everything. This is what could have been.

We were a family in that dream. Whole. Untouched by betrayal, loss, or time. We sat together on a blanket beneath a tree that stretched its branches as if to shield us from the world. Jara sang a song she didn’t know she knew. Malik smiled at me the way he once had, before power eclipsed love.

And for a moment—just a breath in eternity—I let myself believe it was real. That the threads of fate could be unwound, rewoven, undone.

But dreams, even for a Dreamweaver, have their limits. The amber light dimmed, the laughter faded, and I was alone in the field.

I reached out, trying to hold onto the strands, but they slipped through my fingers, leaving only a single golden thread.

I keep it with me now, wrapped around my wrist like a silent promise. Not to change the past—but to honor it.

Because the beauty of dreams is not in their permanence, but in the fleeting truth they reveal.

That even in our darkest moments, there is a memory, a hope, a whisper of what might have been, guiding us forward.

“We do not weave to change the past,” I remembered, Auren Tahl's words, “we weave to remind the future that we were here.”

And so, when I wake and the dream fades, I hold onto that golden thread. Not as a regret, but as a reminder.
Of what we fight for.
Of what we love.
Of what we dream.