First, there was the sound of rain, slapping against the rooftops like a thousand hands, trying to get someone’s attention. I was there, perched on a balcony, with a cup of stolen sunshine - or was it tea? The lines of reality blurred like a half-remembered song.

“Have you seen the owls?” they whispered, voices trailing like smoke. I nodded, even though I hadn’t, not recently. But there’s an understanding in dreams that doesn’t care about truth or timelines. Owls are always watching.

The marketplace smelled of memories - spices that tickled your nose, and laughter wrapped in nostalgia. I remember a girl selling colored ribbons braided with fragments of joy, promising they'd hold your secrets safe. I bought one, though I can't recall what I whispered into its fibers.

Technicolor fish swam through vending machines, their scales shimmering like broken glass in the moonlight. “A dollar for a glimpse, two for a catch,” the man behind the glass said, his smile too wide for comfort. I tossed in a quarter, but all I saw was my own reflection, distorted and laughing.

When I woke up the next day, the rain had stopped. The world outside was just as ordinary, but somewhere deep inside, I carried the weight of whispered promises and forgotten songs. Thanks to the owls, perhaps; they've always had better things to do.