Much like the voice’s words, however, there was nothing that compelled going inside. No guards stood at the open doors, gesturing impatiently to move along. Nor did the doors shake with the threat of closing once more if faced with too much dilly-dallying. The wind itself had also died down, so that there was no danger of a sudden violent gust pushing in those who were still undecided against their will. This, too—this opening of the doors to allow passage into the grandeur within—was nothing more than an invitation, one that could only be accepted by the voluntary movement of putting one foot before the other.

  Of course, there was nothing to inhibit such a simple and natural movement, so the question came down to: Was it right to go inside? Surely, a castle as grand and pristine as this had no relation whatsoever to mundane nights holed up inside a tiny bedroom, poring over Psychology textbooks in the hopes that crammed knowledge would translate to a number on a paper, then a number on a digital transcript, then, after several more translations, a number on a paycheque that was just barely larger than the numbers combined from various bills. Big numbers, small life. Surely there was a bigger life that voice had meant to call out to, and stepping into this castle as someone so tiny and inconsequential would only result in being squashed by matters and forces far beyond what one’s agency could afford. Perhaps, then, it was rightful to step aside and allow the real men and women to walk into their rightful chamber.

  Yes, yes, this conclusion sounded right, wrapped up in the disarming voice of familiarity, the same voice that made staying buried under blankets in a bedroom sound like ever the right call to make. Waltzing outside, into the world, into the crossfire of conflicting motivations and ideals and causes to care about and stand for, was a sure way to be shrunken and minified, made into a speck of dust blown across the surface of the world. Better to stay in one’s room, under the covers, where at least that stifling warmth did not hurt as much.

  But there were no covers to hide under here. The bridge was bare, and cold, and uncomfortable to lie or sit on. And just off its edges was the sheer breadth of the world below, showcasing in all its unapologetic views the dead and barren desert as well as the drowned and submerged ruins lying beneath the overpowering ocean. There was no comfort to be had here, at this threshold between the bridge and the castle. The only promise for reprieve lay in the castle depths, laid bare behind the mighty doors and beckoning for that first step inside. It did not promise that first step would matter, at all, in the grand scheme of things, but it was a step toward something.

  And so, the cobblestone echoed with the pitter-patter of the first step taken by Lucy Lockhart.

  The red carpet was a welcome change from the cold hardness of stone, feeling warm and softly textured against her soles. It inexplicably drew her forward through the castle’s reception chamber, producing a sure, definite path through an expanse so wide that it would have been easy to get lost—not from twisting corridors or confusing doorways, but from the sheer enormity of it all.

  The stone columns were far more massive up close, and even the benches and stands looked several magnitudes larger than anything one would expect in the real world (this was not the real world, clearly). This was only exacerbated by the complete lack of people, making the empty spaces absolute and unbroken and, thus, another large structure all their own. Despite this, the castle interior was very beautiful, in a spotlessly-clean museum sort of fashion. But one could not help but wonder if there were meant to be people crowding around the tables and benches or leaning casually against the pillars in small talk. There was a still, grey loneliness to it all, melding with Lucy’s solitary and silent venture.

  The only companion on this venture was the smooth red carpet, and following its regal length led to a large pair of double doors at the opposite end of the chamber. A statue as large as the double doors stood off to one side some dozen or so paces before the doors. It was as pristine and carefully-chiselled as all the pillars around it, yet there was a curious lack of detail, particularly in the face. This made it impossible to tell who this was meant to be a likeness of, but from the rest of the statue’s figure one might suppose this was a woman. But even this was difficult to surmise, for the statue donned some type of heavy clothing—or perhaps it was armour? If that were the case, it couldn’t have been full body armour, as their head and neck were exposed, their long flowing hair out free and swept slightly to one side as if moved by a nonexistent wind. In one hand the statue held a sword, which was raised above their heads and pointing skyward, as if to make their already-large figure even taller.

  This certainly did no favours in terms of alleviating Lucy’s rampant feelings of smallness, and yet unlike all the other enormous things she had encountered so far, this statue felt…inspiring, somehow. And, even more strangely, familiar. Were one to peek into the deepest recesses of Lucy’s memory, they would not find anything close to resembling this statue. And yet, if that statue were taken and put somewhere in the young woman’s mind, it would likely snap into place quite readily, like a puzzle piece that had fallen out of the box and blown away by the wind to elsewhere in the world—or, in this case, another world altogether.

  As beautiful and arresting as the statue was, it did not deter the red carpet’s subtle but unyielding spell over Lucy’s feet, propelling her to take step after step. Soon the carpet itself came to an end before the large double doors. Presumably, the voice that had called out was behind them, but though Lucy waited there came no second utterance of that voice, nor did the doors open by themselves.

  There was no choice, then, but to open the doors by hand.

  But these doors, being nearly as large as the gate, were far too expansive and heavy to open simultaneously; opening just one of them would have to do. Even then, the surface of one of the doors easily dwarfed Lucy’s tiny hand, and there quickly came the question of whether something so mighty and important would yield to such a small and ineffectual hand.

  And yet, when that door received a simple but firm push from Lucy’s hand, it swung open with a heavy creak far more easily than that hand’s owner could have expected.

  But perhaps it had been done by the unseen hands of the wind, for when the door slid open as far as it was able, what lay beyond was the bright blue sky.

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  It was no understatement to say that this was utterly perplexing, for the castle was absolutely wider than this based on what Lucy had gleaned outside. The reception chamber would have only been a fifth or sixth of the castle’s depth; there was no way, as far as Lucy’s conception of geometry was concerned, for this door to be leading outside.

  But the pinpricks of wind from the cold air that dappled along her cheeks and tickled her nose said otherwise, as did the familiar rushing and groaning of the wind. In the middle of this open expanse was a tall figure covered from head to toe in what appeared to be extravagant robes. They were red…then purple…then blue…then yellow…and every colour Lucy could possibly envision, changing hue with every slight shifting of angle in the sunlight and Lucy’s gaze. Yet this was not the most arresting thing about the figure standing there.

  And that, quite simply, was because they were not simply standing there, but floating in mid-air.

  A look down at the path before Lucy’s feet revealed that there was no such path—nor any walkable surface, for that matter. Free, empty air was all that lay beyond the door’s threshold, promising a sheer drop to the world below, where ocean waves crashed restlessly, eager to swallow up a new meal. Were it not for Lucy’s fortunate lack of acrophobia, this sight would have induced abject terror, the kind that sends the bones unbalanced and muscles twitching, leading perhaps to an unfortunate tumble down hundreds of feet of unguarded air. As it so happened, all that swept over Lucy was a pallor of confusion and uncertainty: surely, this figure, who had to have been the one calling out to her, didn’t intend for her to take a nosedive?

  “You have done well, making it thus far.”

  It was indeed the same voice that Lucy had heard outside. And despite the fact that he was clearly in the direction ahead of her, their voice—sonorous and carefully enunciated, like a well-spoken man with a great number of years—sounded out from all directions, just as before.

  “You may come closer so that we may speak and resolve your confusions,” said the robed man. “If you would like, of course.”

  One would expect that a floating man obscured by technicolor robes, with a voice that emanated from every corner of the world, would inspire trepidation or at least apprehensive awe. And yet, there came from him the same inexplicable sense of familiarity, that there was something inexplicably right about Lucy meeting him, here and now, and that speaking with him was an obligation so intrinsic as to almost be like blinking or breathing. Closing the distance for a more proper chat would be Lucy’s next imperative—if only there was a floor or ground or anything solid at her feet.

  “If you wish to come speak with me,” said the robed figure, “you needn’t be afraid of a fall. Place your feet where they may, and the clouds will coalesce, becoming the ground that was yet unneeded until your arrival.”

  Despite the authority behind his all-encompassing voice, his words sounded far too fanciful to be true. It was easy enough to lift one’s leg, bringing their foot down on where they wished to step to propel themselves forward, but to believe that solid ground would magically spring up? Solid ground made of clouds? And so the end result was Lucy’s leg raised, foot hanging in mid-air, before coming back down to return to its original position.

  “What is driving such hesitation?” His question pierced the heavy air, but not because of its tone—which was, rather than offended or scornful, doused in concern and curiosity. “You have seen many bizarre sights, no doubt. Far more bizarre than clouds appearing at one’s feet. Could it be that you are no longer able to believe that flights of fantasy can coexist with yourself?”

  Again, it was not the tone of voice that made his words strike potently—this time, it was the sharpness of fact. A staircase reaching up into the sky, a bottomless pit cursed with endless falling, an entire castle floating hundreds of feet in the air: all of these went beyond bizarre and landed squarely in the realm of nonsensical. So why was it so difficult to believe that clouds, ever the tireless sailors of the sky, could come and gather into a pathway for one who needed it? Was it as the robed man had said, that Lucy was incapable of accepting that the laws of reality would bend for her? But he hadn’t said that she was entirely incapable.

  “No longer able to…”

  The more those four words tumbled about in Lucy’s mind, the more they dredged up ruefulness, and pity, and yearning. It was the opposite feeling from that of the statue in the reception chamber, or of the robed figure himself when Lucy first saw him across the open air. A gap had formed, somewhere, sometime long ago, in the very crux of Lucy’s soul, cracked in and punctured by days, months, and years, of being silenced, corrected, and boxed in to contain all that growth: of imagination, of dreams, of hopes, of anything that was seen as too gnarly and unruly by reality and needed to be trimmed down to size. What point was there believing in such things, if every step taken was for the sake of making enough of a grade or an income?

  But this was not reality. The next step wouldn’t lead to the bus stop, nor the employee changing room, nor a bedroom so overused it was losing colour like a deathly overripe fruit. No, this next step would lead across the sky, worlds away from all of that—as long as Lucy believed it so.

  And when the empty air was at last filled with her outstretched foot coming down carefully, streams of puffy white swirled in, condensing and solidifying, replacing the weightlessness and emptiness with firm foundation. The step Lucy took was now a step she had taken.

  One step, then another, and another, each greeted with cloudy, cumulus circles of ground that formed wherever her feet may land. No matter the change in tempo or stride length, the cloud steps followed her action and hers alone.

  When at last the distance to the robed figure was but a mere three or four feet, he said: “Excellent. You have done well, Lucy.”

  The foreknowledge of her name would have drawn immediate questions, but the surprise from that was eclipsed by a clearer look at his appearance. From afar, it had seemed as though his face was obscured perhaps by the shadow of a hood, or hidden behind a mask. In truth, he had neither a hood nor a mask, for there was nothing to hide: he bore no face. His head, slowly cycling through colours like his robes, had a blank space where his face would have been. Atop his head was a pointed, golden headpiece that shone brightly in the sun: a crown.

  The King…

  The words emerged at the forefront of Lucy’s mind then and there, so profusely that she almost spoke them aloud. It was a reasonable conclusion to make, after seeing his crown and extravagant robes, but there was more familiarity laced into those words, not unlike with the statue of the sword-bearing hero or Lucy’s first gaze at this “King” himself. And this was why, despite the immense difference in size between the two, the King towering to at least the same height as that statue, all that this close encounter evoked from Lucy was wide-eyed awe and admiration.

  “I am pleased that you recognize me,” he said in his omnipresent voice. “You would often Dream of coming to my audience chamber, just like this, to heed the needs and requests that this World Kingdom required of its champion.”

  That was it: this was not their first meeting. Far from it. Although the memory of it was heavily faded, like the fleeting remnants of a dream in the early morning haze, it nevertheless shone brightly in the oft-forgotten abyss of Lucy’s mind, where childhood memories laid. And because of this, embarrassment swept over like a hot, humid wind, bringing with it the realization that Lucy’s mind had immersed her in dreams that truly were from a more naive time.

  “Truth be told,” said the King, “I am overjoyed. You have seldom visited for the past many epochs of your life. It is wholesome, then, that you should return here once more for your Final Dream.”

  Final Dream?