I stood in front of the machine for a long time.
It sat quietly in the centre of the room — no sound, no movement — like something deliberately stripped of excess, the kind of simplicity that makes you hesitant to approach. I kept a distance between us, my heartbeat steady but present. Not fear, exactly — more the natural alertness that rises when you're facing something uncertain.
"What is this?" I asked.
Noah glanced at the machine. "Something my dad built. I call it the Dream Machine."
I paused. "Your dad?"
"Yes." He nodded. "The speaker from the auditorium. Dr. William. That's my father."
Something clicked into place — the talk, those words about perception and constructed space, and then Noah in the corridor saying, I might be able to help you. I looked at the machine differently now. It felt more solid. More real.
"So what he said in the talk — about more real dreams — that's actually true?"
"More or less," he said. "There's only this one unit, and it's still a prototype. There may be small inconsistencies, but the system corrects them automatically. You don't need to worry about that."
"What kind of inconsistencies?"
He exhaled slightly. "Occasionally a detail inside might not match exactly with your memory. If the system detects that, it'll bring you into a new adjusted environment and restart. From your perspective, it's just a shift in scene."
He looked at me and added, "I've tried it myself. It works fine."
That sentence — I've tried it myself — landed differently from any technical explanation. Not because it was particularly convincing, but because of how he said it. Not reassurance. Just a fact.
"Once you're inside, there's a door," he continued. "The edges will have a slight glow — you'll recognise it immediately. If you exit through that door before the time runs out, you return to reality."
"How long is the time?"
"It varies." He shook his head. "Your subconscious decides. As long as you want, that's how long. Before the time is up, the door will start to dim slowly — that's the signal that it's time to leave."
"What if you don't make it out in time?"
"Then you enter the next dream. A new door will appear, so there's nothing to worry about — you won't get stuck inside."
I stood there and turned all of that over slowly. The rules sounded simple: find the door, walk out, come back. I looked at the machine again, then at Noah.
"Understood," I said.
I walked toward it. Up close, the details resolved — there was a thin layer of soft material where you'd sit or lie, not cold to the touch, more comfortable than I'd expected. No complex interface. No dials to adjust. Exactly as he'd described. Simple.
"Just lie back and close your eyes," he said. "Relax. Don't overthink it."
I sat down on the machine and leaned back, settling into it. More comfortable than I'd anticipated — the kind of thing that makes it easy to stop holding tension. I let my gaze rest on the light above, white and even, quiet. My heartbeat was still slightly fast, but I breathed in slowly, and did what he said — closed my eyes.
Darkness fell.
At first, nothing. I could hear my own breathing, and somewhere at the edges, a faint ambient sound — some low, constant frequency. Then those sounds began to recede, as if someone were gently drawing them away. Further and further. More and more muffled. Consciousness began to sink — not the passive sinking of falling asleep, but something more deliberate, like moving downward through water toward somewhere deeper.
When I came back to myself, I was already there.
The floor was beneath my feet. Air surrounded me. The temperature was specific. The smell was specific. And that smell — I knew it before anything else did, so familiar that my body reacted before my mind caught up. I looked down at the floor.
Then I froze.
The living room of home. But not the floor I knew — the old tiles, from before the renovation. Years ago. The edges slightly worn, the colour something between white and yellowed with time. I knew this floor. I remembered the exact feeling of walking on it.
I stood still, my breathing going slightly uneven. The smell in the air was stronger now. Her smell. Not a named perfume — just the smell that came from her, from that home, from that kitchen, something she carried so naturally that I'd stopped noticing it until now, when it arrived all at once and I realised how much I'd missed it.
I reached out and touched the wall beside me — cool, the matte texture of paint. Real. I took a step. The floor gave its sound beneath me, solid, specific. Not the floating quality of ordinary dreams.
At the end of the corridor, a door. Not one that was supposed to be there — I knew that clearly. But there it stood, quiet and still, edges traced in a faint, pale light, something pressing softly through from the other side.
I understood immediately: that was the exit.
From the kitchen — a sound.
"You're up?"
Low and soft and warm. A voice I knew more than any other voice in the world. I went completely still, like something had pressed down on me from above. My heartbeat turned heavy and fast at the same moment.
One step toward that kitchen, and I would see her.
The impulse was immediate. It nearly erased everything else.
But in the same instant, something else surfaced — quiet and clear: I need to verify the door first. Before I go in. Before I sink into this. I need to know that exit actually brings me back.
If it does, this doesn't have to be the last time.
I turned slowly, walked to the door at the end of the corridor. I pressed my hand against it, took a breath, and pushed it open.
Light rushed in and swallowed everything.
Then I opened my eyes.
White ceiling. The machine. The room. Everything back. I lay there without moving, my heartbeat still not quite settled. I raised one hand and looked at it — still my own. Everything normal.
I sat up slowly. Didn't speak. The images from just now were still there — the tiles, the smell, the door with its pale glow at the edges.
Noah was watching me from nearby. "How was it?"
I looked down at my hand, fingers pressing together.
After a moment, I said quietly, "I was just back there."