The Bench and the Rocket: A Dreamlike Encounter at the Edge of Reality 🚀
The park was impossibly clean—eerily perfect. The white metal bench we sat on gleamed under the strange sky, untouched by time or wear. My old friend was beside me, just as I remembered them, though I couldn’t quite recall the last time we’d spoken. Years had passed, hadn’t they? Or had they?
Beyond the stillness of the park, a massive white rocket loomed, too close for a launch site, too silent for something so immense. It had no visible markings, no insignia, just smooth, gleaming panels that reflected the swirling, impasto sky—a chaotic masterpiece of deep blues, purples, and golden streaks, as if the universe itself had been painted with a restless hand.
I exhaled, trying to shake the odd sense of displacement. “This feels... off.”
My friend chuckled softly. “You always overthink things.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange?” I gestured at the rocket, at the park that felt too clean, too still. “Why would they put a bench here? This close?”
They tilted their head, considering. “Maybe it’s meant for people like us. The ones waiting.”
A cold ripple ran through me. Waiting for what?
I looked around, searching for other people, but the park stretched out in quiet perfection, untouched by wind, by footsteps, by life. Even the rocket, massive as it was, felt too still, as if it weren’t really there—or worse, as if I weren’t.
I swallowed. “Where were we before this?”
My friend turned to me, their expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”
The answer lodged itself in my throat. It did matter. But the more I tried to remember, the further it slipped from my grasp, like a dream dissolving in the morning light.
The sky churned above us, golden streaks shimmering in the vortex of deep blues. Something was changing.
A distant hum vibrated through the air—low, steady, growing stronger. The rocket. The launch.
Or something else.
I stood up. “I think we should go.”
My friend remained seated, watching me with a knowing smile. “Go where?”
The hum grew louder. The air shimmered. I suddenly wasn’t sure if I was waking up—or falling deeper in.
The hum deepened, low and resonant, as if coming from within the earth itself. The sky twisted above us, golden streaks shimmering like liquid fire. I looked at my friend. They weren’t looking at me anymore.
They were staring at the rocket.
“You were always meant to come back,” they murmured.
The words sent a chill down my spine. “Back? I don’t even know where we are.”
My friend smiled—not unkind, but distant, as if I were the one missing something obvious. “You don’t remember, do you?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
I turned back to the rocket. It was too close, too still. No markings, no insignia. Just smooth, white panels reflecting the unnatural sky. But as I looked closer, a section of its surface shifted. A panel slid open with a silent, fluid motion.
A doorway.
My pulse quickened. “It’s… open?”
“It was always open.”
I swallowed hard. “For who?”
“For you.”
I stepped back, gripping the edge of the metal bench. It felt solid. Real. Unlike everything else in this place.
I forced out a breath. “You keep saying that, but I don’t understand.”
My friend finally turned back to me. Their expression was unreadable. “It’s not about understanding. It’s about remembering.”
The humming grew louder. The bench vibrated beneath my fingers. The air shimmered as if the world itself was losing focus.
I tried to step away from the bench—but my legs wouldn’t move.
Something was wrong.
I looked at my friend, panic creeping into my voice. “What’s happening?”
They didn’t seem surprised. Only sad.
“You left before,” they said. “But something always brings you back.”
I tried to protest, to argue, but my vision blurred. The sky pulsed, the rocket’s doorway loomed wider.
And then, like a thread slipping through my fingers—
I was falling.
This story was inspired by a personal dream, blending imagination with subconscious reflections
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