The Man Who Sold Dreams

There was a shop at the end of a forgotten street.

It had no sign, no grand display.

Just an old wooden door with a small brass plate that read:

"Dreams for Sale."

People whispered about it.

Some said it was a scam.

Others claimed it was magic.

But those who stepped inside… never walked out the same.

The First Time I Entered

I found the shop by accident.

It was late, and I had been wandering aimlessly, lost in my own thoughts.

Then I saw the door.

Something about it pulled me in.

When I stepped inside, I expected shelves full of trinkets or strange artifacts.

But the shop was almost empty.

Only a single wooden counter, and behind it, an old man in a dark suit.

He looked up and smiled.

"Welcome," he said. "Are you here to buy a dream?"

Buying a Dream

I frowned. "How do you sell dreams?"

He gestured to a row of small glass bottles behind him.

Each one shimmered with a soft glow.

"Every bottle holds a dream," he said. "A dream someone gave up on."

I stared at them.

"How much?"

He smiled. "It depends on the dream."

I hesitated. "Can I see one?"

He nodded and picked up a bottle.

He uncorked it—and suddenly, the room vanished.

The Dream of Flight

I was no longer in the shop.

I was soaring through the sky, weightless and free.

The wind rushed past me, the clouds soft as silk.

I laughed, stretching my arms, feeling limitless.

And then—

I was back.

The shop returned.

The old man corked the bottle and placed it back on the shelf.

I gasped. "That felt… real."

He nodded. "It was."

I swallowed hard. "Whose dream was that?"

He sighed. "A boy who wanted to be a pilot. But he gave up."

The Price of a Dream

I stared at the bottles.

"So people can just… buy someone else's dream?"

The old man smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes.

"Yes," he said. "But dreams are not free."

I frowned. "Then what’s the price?"

He leaned in.

"The price of a dream… is a memory."

I froze.

"A memory?"

He nodded. "You must trade one memory to take a dream."

I hesitated. "Any memory?"

He smiled. "A fair trade. A dream for a piece of your past."

The Man Who Had Nothing Left

Just then, the bell above the door rang.

A man entered.

His eyes were empty.

His face was pale.

Without a word, he placed five bottles on the counter.

The old man nodded and handed him a small, glowing bottle.

The man took it, uncorked it—

And vanished.

I gasped. "What happened?"

The shopkeeper sighed.

"He had traded away too many memories. He had nothing left."

I shuddered. "Is he… dead?"

The old man shook his head.

"No. He is living inside the dream now."

I felt my chest tighten.

"What happens if you forget too much?"

The shopkeeper's eyes darkened.

"You lose yourself."

A Choice to Make

I turned back to the bottles.

So many abandoned dreams.

So many forgotten hopes.

I wanted one.

But was it worth a memory?

I thought about my own dreams.

The ones I had let go of.

I took a deep breath.

And then, I made my choice.

I walked away.

The Lesson of the Dream Seller

As I stepped out into the cold night air, I realized something.

Dreams are never truly lost.

They are waiting for us to claim them.

But if we abandon them for too long…

Someone else might take them.

Or worse—

We might forget we ever had them.

---