Whimsy's Wonder

 

A Normal Unusual Day 

 

The steering wheel was sticky under Sally's hands.

She didn't know what it was—soda, maybe, or the residue of too many fast-food bags shoved into the cupholder and forgotten. She should clean the car. Add it to the list of things she should do but never had the energy for.

The traffic light ahead turned red. Sally stopped, her foot heavy on the brake, and stared at the dashboard clock.

5:47 PM.

Another day gone. Another eight hours of her life she'd never get back, spent staring at a computer screen, typing claim codes into boxes that didn't care and wouldn't remember her.

The light turned green.

Sally pressed the gas and reached for the radio dial, cranking the volume until it was to the point just before the speakers would begin to crackle. Rock music poured through the speakers—something loud, something angry, something that matched the tightness in her chest.

She opened her mouth and screamed.

She sang as loudly as her vocal cords would permit. Her voice cracked on the high notes, but she didn't care. No one could hear her. No one was listening.

This was the only time it was acceptable to scream and shout. The only time she could let it out.

By the time she pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building, her throat was sore. She turned off the engine and sat in the sudden silence, staring at the peeling paint on the building's exterior.

Home.

If you could call it that.

The apartment smelled like nothing. Not bad, not good. Just... empty.

Sally dropped her keys on the counter and kicked off her shoes, leaving them where they fell. The kitchen light flickered when she flipped the switch—had been doing that for weeks now—but she didn't have the money to call maintenance, and she didn't have the energy to care.

Ramen tonight. Chicken flavor. She'd had beef yesterday.

She broke the noodles in half, put them in a bowl with some water, and stuck it in the microwave. Waiting for another joyless meal. Waiting for another joyless night.

This is all there is, she thought, not for the first time. This is all there ever will be.

Work. Drive. Ramen. Couch. Bed. Repeat.

Thirty years old, and this was her life.

The water boiled. She watched the bowl rotate. She opened the door before it could make a sound, stirred and stuck it back in. 8 minutes and dinner was done.

She was pouring the seasoning packet into the bowl when she heard it.

A sound.

Soft. Almost like... humming?

Sally froze.

The humming continued. Light, cheerful, coming from somewhere behind her.

Her living room.

Slowly, Sally turned around.

A little girl sat cross-legged on her couch.

She couldn't have been more than six or seven, with wild curls that stuck out in every direction and bright, curious eyes. She wore a dress that looked like it had been cobbled together from scraps—mismatched fabrics, too many colors, pockets sewn on at odd angles.

And she was humming.

Sally's heart slammed against her ribs.

"Who—" Her voice came out hoarse, still raw from screaming in the car. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"

The little girl stopped humming and looked up, tilting her head like a bird.

"Hi!" she said brightly. "I'm Whimsy."

Sally stared.

"You—" Sally's brain was struggling to catch up. "You can't just break into someone's apartment and—"

"I didn't break in," Whimsy said, swinging her legs. "I came through."

"Through what?"

Whimsy pointed at the wall behind the couch.

Sally looked. It was just a wall. Beige. Blank. Nothing special.

"There's nothing there," Sally said slowly.

"Not for you," Whimsy said. "Not yet."

"Not yet?" Sally asked, "What does that even mean? Who are you? Where are your parents?"

Whimsy hopped off the couch and walked toward her, completely unafraid. Up close, Sally could see that her eyes were an odd color—not quite brown, not quite green. Somewhere in between. Familiar, somehow.

"I'm here to help," Whimsy said simply.

"Help with what?"

Whimsy smiled. It was a bright, unguarded smile, the kind Sally hadn't seen in years. The kind she didn't think existed anymore.

"You forgot," Whimsy said. "But that's okay. I remember."

"Forgot what?"

Whimsy reached out and took Sally's hand. Her fingers were small and warm.

"How to see," she said.

And the wall behind the couch shimmered.

Sally stared at the shimmering wall, her brain trying to make sense of what she was seeing. It rippled like water, like heat waves on pavement, like something that shouldn't exist in her beige, empty apartment.

"What is that?" she whispered.

"It's wonderful!" Whimsy said, practically bouncing on her toes. "Come on! Come on, you have to see!"

"Wait, I—"

But Whimsy didn't wait. She grabbed Sally's hand with both of hers and yanked.

Sally stumbled forward, her socks sliding on the cheap linoleum, her heart hammering. "Wait! I don't—"

"It's okay!" Whimsy laughed, bright and fearless. "You just have to choose!"

And she pulled Sally straight through the shimmering wall.

 

Painted Worlds

 

Sally turned slowly, taking it all in. Behind them, the veil shimmered—a doorway back to her apartment, back to reality. Ahead, the meadow stretched on forever, disappearing into soft-focus distance.

"This isn't possible," Sally said, but her voice had no conviction. "I must be dreaming."

"It's not a dream," Whimsy said matter-of-factly. "It's a painting."

Sally blinked at her. "That doesn't make it more possible."

"Sure it does." Whimsy crouched down and picked a flower—a blue one that sparkled like it had been dusted with stars. She held it out to Sally. "See? You can touch it. You can be here."

Sally took the flower with shaking hands. It was real. Solid. The petals were soft, the stem slightly rough. It smelled like summer evenings she'd forgotten existed.

"How?" she whispered.

Whimsy smiled up at her, bright and knowing.

"You used to do this all the time," she said. "You just forgot."

Whimsy didn't wait for Sally to process. She grabbed her hand again—still holding the flower in the other—and tugged her forward into the meadow.

"Come on! There's so much to see!"

"Wait, I—" Sally stumbled after her, the grass soft and cool under her socks. "I don't understand what's happening."

"You don't have to understand," Whimsy said, skipping ahead. "You just have to look."

Whimsy stood up suddenly, brushing grass from her dress. "We should keep going."

Sally blinked up at her. "Going where?"

"Everywhere!" Whimsy grinned and held out her hand. "There's so much more to see. You can't remember from just one place."

"I don't—" Sally started, but Whimsy was already pulling her to her feet.

"Come on," she said, tugging Sally toward the edge of the hill. "The train should be here soon."

"The train?" Sally repeated. "What train?"

Whimsy pointed.

In the distance, where the meadow met the painted horizon, something shimmered. Not like the veil—this was different. Brighter. Moving.

And then Sally heard it.

A whistle. Low and melodic, like something out of a dream.

In the distance, where the meadow met the painted horizon, something shimmered. Not like the veil—this was different. Brighter. Moving.

"What is that?" she asked.

"The train!" Whimsy bounced on her toes, practically vibrating with excitement. "It's here! Come on, come on, we have to catch it!"

She grabbed Sally's hand and took off running down the hill.

Sally had no choice but to follow, stumbling over the soft grass, her heart pounding. The whistle sounded again, closer now, and she could see it—

A train.

But not like any train she'd ever seen.

It emerged from the shimmer at the edge of the meadow, sleek and impossible, painted in swirls of gold and silver that seemed to move even as the train stood still. The windows glowed with warm light, and steam puffed from the smokestack in soft, lazy clouds that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.

It was beautiful.

The train slowed as it approached, wheels barely touching the grass, and came to a gentle stop in front of them. A door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a small platform and steps leading up.

Whimsy didn't hesitate. She hopped onto the first step and turned back, grinning. "Come on!"

Sally stood frozen, staring up at the impossible train.

"I don't—" she started.

"You do," Whimsy said firmly. "You just forgot. Now come on, or we'll miss it!"

The train gave a gentle lurch, as if preparing to leave.

Sally's feet moved before her brain could catch up. She grabbed the railing and pulled herself onto the platform, her socks slipping slightly on the smooth metal.

The door slid shut behind her.

And the train began to move.

Whimsy pulled Sally through the doorway and into the train car.

Sally stopped, her breath catching.

The inside was painted.

Not decorated—painted. The walls were covered in bold acrylic strokes, thick and textured, in colors that shouldn't have worked together but somehow did. Crimson reds bled into electric blues, sunshine yellows clashed beautifully with deep purples. The seats were upholstered in fabric that looked like it had been dipped in a rainbow, each one a different pattern—stripes, polka dots, swirls, flowers.

The ceiling was painted like a night sky, but not a realistic one. This sky had stars in shapes that didn't exist, constellations that spelled out words Sally couldn't quite read, and a moon that grinned down at her with a crooked smile.

It was chaotic and wonderful and completely overwhelming.

"Isn't it amazing?" Whimsy said, spinning in the aisle. "I love this train. It's never the same twice."

Sally reached out and touched the wall. The paint was textured under her fingers, raised and real. She could feel the brushstrokes.

"How is this possible?" she whispered.

"You keep asking that," Whimsy said, plopping down into a seat covered in bright orange spirals. "But you already know the answer."

Sally didn't. Or maybe she did, and she just didn't want to admit it.

The train picked up speed, the painted meadow blurring past the windows. Sally grabbed the back of a seat to steady herself and slowly sat down across from Whimsy.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

Whimsy grinned. "Somewhere wonderful."

The train slowed to a stop, and Whimsy grabbed Sally's hand. "Come on!"

They stepped off onto a beach.

But not a normal beach. The sand was painted in thick impasto strokes, textured and golden, and the ocean beyond crashed in waves of deep blue and white foam that looked like they'd been sculpted with a palette knife. The sky above was stormy—grays and blacks swirling together, dramatic and powerful—but the storm never broke. It hung there, frozen in paint, beautiful and wild.

Sally stood at the edge of the water, watching the waves that never quite reached the shore.

"It's incredible," she whispered.

"I know!" Whimsy kicked at the painted sand, laughing as it scattered in chunky, textured pieces. "Come on, the train's leaving!"

They ran back and climbed aboard just as the whistle blew.

The next stop was a forest.

Trees stretched impossibly tall, their trunks twisted and gnarled, painted in shades of brown and green that glowed faintly from within. The leaves overhead were every color—reds, golds, purples, blues—and they rustled even though there was no wind. The air smelled like earth and moss and something sweet Sally couldn't name.

Whimsy led her down a path between the trees, pointing out details—a bird made entirely of brushstrokes perched on a branch, a stream that flowed with liquid silver paint, mushrooms that glowed like tiny lanterns.

"You used to love this one," Whimsy said softly. "You said it felt like a fairy tale."

Sally touched the bark of a tree. It was rough and real under her fingers.

"I don't remember," she said.

"Not yet," Whimsy said. "But you will."

 

The train took them to a city next.

It was nighttime here—or always nighttime, Sally couldn't tell. The buildings were painted in soft, impressionist strokes, their edges blurred and dreamy. Lights glowed in windows, warm yellows and oranges that reflected on wet cobblestone streets. Streetlamps cast halos of light, and in the distance, a clock tower chimed a melody that felt familiar.

They walked through the quiet streets, past cafés with painted patrons frozen mid-conversation, past shop windows filled with impossible things.

"It's so peaceful," Sally said.

"It's one of my favorites," Whimsy admitted.  

 

Then came the market.

It exploded with color and life. Stalls lined narrow streets, painted in bold, vibrant strokes—reds and yellows and greens and blues all competing for attention. Painted people moved through the crowd, their faces simple but expressive, their clothes a riot of patterns. The air smelled like spices and fresh bread and flowers.

Whimsy darted between the stalls, pointing at everything—baskets of fruit that glowed, bolts of fabric that shimmered, jewelry made of light.

Sally followed, overwhelmed but smiling despite herself.

The last painting before the dreams was winter.

Snow fell in soft, gentle strokes, each flake visible and perfect. The landscape was quiet—rolling hills covered in white, bare trees with branches like delicate ink lines, a frozen pond that reflected the pale sky above.

It was peaceful. Still. Beautiful in its simplicity.

Sally stood in the snow—cold but not uncomfortable—and watched the flakes drift down.

"Why are you showing me all of this?" she asked quietly.

Whimsy stood beside her, her wild curls dusted with painted snow.

"Because you forgot," she said. "You forgot that the world could be beautiful. That it could be more than bills and ramen and screaming in your car." She looked up at Sally, those familiar eyes serious now. "You forgot that you could choose wonder."

Sally's throat tightened.

"I don't know how," she whispered.

"Yes, you do." Whimsy took her hand. "You're doing it right now."

The train whistle sounded again, pulling them back from the winter landscape.

They climbed aboard, shaking painted snow from their clothes, and settled into their seats. The interior of the train had changed once again. It was now painted in softer colors. The sun was painted on the ceiling instead of the moon. Sally was quieter now, thoughtful. The painted worlds had been beautiful, but something about them felt... safe. Contained. Like stepping into a postcard.

She had a feeling that was about to change.

Whimsy was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing in her seat as the train began to move.

"Where are we going now?" Sally asked.

Whimsy grinned. "Somewhere even better."

The colors outside the windows began to blur again—white and blue and gray melting together—but this time, something felt different. The rhythm of the train changed, the clack-clack becoming softer, dreamier, like it was moving through water instead of over tracks.

The colors outside shifted. They weren't blurring anymore—they were swirling. Twisting and folding in on themselves, impossible and hypnotic.

Sally leaned closer to the window. "What's happening?"

"We're leaving the paintings," Whimsy said, standing up and moving to the door. "We're going somewhere deeper."

"Deeper?"

Whimsy turned to her, eyes bright. "Dreams, Sally. We're going into someone's dream."

Sally's heart skipped. "Whose dream?"

Whimsy just smiled and held out her hand.

 

Dreams

 

The train slowed. The door slid open.

And beyond it—

The world shimmered, liquid and shifting, like looking through water. Colors moved in ways that didn't make sense. Shapes formed and dissolved. The air smelled like something Sally couldn't name—familiar and strange all at once.

"Come on," Whimsy said softly. "It's safe. I promise."

Sally took her hand.

And together, they stepped into the dream.

Sally stepped through the doorway and gasped.

They were underwater.

But she could breathe.

The ocean surrounded them—deep blues and greens that shifted with currents she could feel but not see. Light filtered down from somewhere above, soft and golden, illuminating schools of fish that swam past in lazy spirals. The fish weren't quite real—their scales shimmered like mother-of-pearl, their fins too long and flowing, their eyes too knowing.

The ocean floor beneath her feet was soft, like sand but also like clouds. Each step sent up little puffs of something that might have been sediment or might have been stardust.

"Where are we?" Sally whispered, though her voice didn't sound muffled. It carried, clear and bell-like, through the water.

"A dream," Whimsy said, spinning slowly, her dress floating around her like seaweed. "A lighthouse keeper's dream. He spends every night watching the ocean, keeping ships safe. But in his dreams..." She gestured around them. "He gets to be part of it."

Sally turned slowly, taking it all in.

Coral grew in impossible formations—spiraling towers, delicate arches, forests of branching structures that glowed faintly pink and orange and purple. Jellyfish drifted past, their bells translucent and filled with tiny stars. A sea turtle the size of a car swam overhead, its shell covered in barnacles that looked like constellations.

It was the most beautiful thing Sally had ever seen.

"It's not real," she said, but there was no conviction in her voice anymore.

"It's real to him," Whimsy said. She pointed.

In the distance, barely visible through the shifting blue, Sally could see a structure. It took her a moment to realize what it was—

A lighthouse. But underwater. Its light still turning, still shining, casting beams through the ocean that the fish followed like roads.

"He dreams of his lighthouse even here," Whimsy said softly. "Because it's part of who he is. Even in his dreams, he's still keeping watch."

Sally stared at the distant light, something tightening in her chest.

"Why are we here?" she asked quietly.

Whimsy looked up at her. "Because dreams are where people keep the things they can't have when they're awake. The things they want. The things they've lost." She paused. "The things they've forgotten."

Whimsy didn't wait for Sally to respond. She kicked off from the ocean floor and swam upward, her movements effortless and graceful, like she'd been born to this.

"Come on!" she called, her laughter bubbling through the water like music.

Sally hesitated, then pushed off the soft ground.

She rose.

Weightless. Free.

Her arms moved through the water without resistance, her body light and easy in a way it never was on land. She wasn't swimming—not really. She was floating, gliding, moving through the dream-ocean like she belonged there.

A laugh escaped her, surprised and genuine.

Whimsy grinned and grabbed her hand, pulling her forward. "See? You remember!"

They swam together through forests of glowing coral, past rock formations covered in anemones that waved gently in invisible currents. Schools of fish surrounded them—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—moving in perfect synchronization. Silver and gold and iridescent blue, they flowed around Sally and Whimsy like living ribbons, parting and reforming, their scales catching the filtered light.

Sally reached out, and the fish didn't scatter. They brushed against her fingers, cool and smooth and impossibly real. It tickled a little.

Then she heard it—a sound like singing, high and clear and joyful.

Whimsy pointed. "Look!"

A pod of dolphins appeared from the blue distance, sleek and graceful, their bodies painted in shades of silver and pearl. But these weren't ordinary dolphins—their fins trailed light like comets, and their eyes sparkled with something that looked like laughter.

They circled Sally and Whimsy, clicking and whistling, playful and curious.

One of them—smaller than the others, maybe younger—swam right up to Sally and nudged her gently with its nose.

Sally laughed, a real laugh, full and bright. She reached out and touched its smooth skin, and the dolphin spun in a happy spiral before darting away.

The pod invited them to play.

Whimsy didn't hesitate. She grabbed onto a dolphin's fin, and it took off, pulling her through the water in a joyful arc. She whooped with delight, her wild curls streaming behind her.

Sally watched, her heart pounding—not with fear, but with something else. Something she hadn't felt in so long she'd almost forgotten what it was.

Joy.

Another dolphin swam up beside her, waiting.

Sally took a breath she didn't need and grabbed hold.

The dolphin surged forward, and Sally flew.

They raced through the dream-ocean, weaving between coral towers, spiraling upward towards the golden light, diving down into valleys of soft sand. The water rushed past her, cool and exhilarating, and Sally couldn't stop laughing.

She felt alive.

When the dolphins finally slowed, bringing them back to where they'd started, Sally was breathless and grinning, her cheeks aching from smiling.

Whimsy floated beside her, beaming. "That was amazing!"

"It was," Sally said, and meant it.

For the first time in years—maybe decades—she felt light.

They found the train waiting for them at the edge of the dream, floating in the water like it belonged there. Whimsy led Sally back aboard, both of them still dripping with dream-ocean water that evaporated the moment they stepped inside.

The train began to move, and the underwater world blurred into swirls of blue and green and gold.

"Where to next?" Sally asked, settling into her seat. She felt different now—lighter, more open. 

Whimsy's eyes sparkled. "Somewhere fun."

The colors outside shifted—blues becoming reds and yellows and pinks, soft and dreamy becoming bright and electric. The train picked up speed, the rhythm changing to something faster, more excited.

When it slowed to a stop and the door opened, Sally heard it immediately.

Music. Laughter. The distant sound of bells and whistles and delighted screams.

She stepped off the train and stopped, her mouth falling open.

They were standing at the entrance to a theme park.

But not a normal one.

The Ferris wheel in the distance was made of light—pure, glowing light that shifted through every color of the rainbow. The roller coaster beside it looped and twisted in ways that defied physics, its tracks spiraling into the sky and disappearing into clouds made of cotton candy. Carousel horses galloped through the air without poles to hold them, their manes streaming like ribbons. Game booths lined pathways that curved and branched in impossible directions, and the prizes on display weren't stuffed animals—they were stars, bottled laughter, jars of fireflies that spelled out wishes.

Everything was too bright, too colorful, too much—in the best possible way.

"Whose dream is this?" Sally asked, spinning slowly to take it all in.

"A little boy's," Whimsy said, already bouncing toward the entrance. "He's six, maybe seven. He went to a fair once and loved it so much he dreams about it every night. Except in his dreams, it's even better."

Sally followed her through the gates—which were made of twisted candy canes and gingerbread—and into the park itself.

Children ran past, laughing and shouting, their faces blurred and indistinct the way people in dreams often were. Vendors called out from stalls selling impossible things—ice cream that never melted, balloons that sang when you held them, popcorn that tasted like whatever you wanted most.

Whimsy grabbed Sally's hand. "Come on! We have to ride the roller coaster!"

"I don't think—" Sally started, but Whimsy was already pulling her toward the impossible, gravity-defying tracks.

There was no line. The roller coaster car—painted in swirls of purple and gold—waited for them at the platform, its seats plush and inviting.

They climbed in, and before Sally could even process what was happening, the safety bar lowered itself with a cheerful click.

The car lurched forward.

They climbed the first hill—up, up, up into the cotton candy clouds—and Sally's stomach dropped as they crested the top.

Then they plummeted.

Sally screamed—half terror, half exhilaration—as they raced down the track, wind whipping through her hair. The car twisted and looped, spinning them upside down and right-side up again, and then—

The tracks ended.

The car kept going.

They were flying.

The roller coaster soared through the air, no tracks beneath them, no logic holding them down. They flew over the Ferris wheel, past the carousel horses galloping through the sky, through clouds that tasted like spun sugar when Sally opened her mouth to laugh.

Whimsy threw her arms up, whooping with pure joy, and Sally—

Sally let go.

She threw her arms up too, laughing so hard her sides hurt, feeling the impossible wind and the impossible flight and the impossible freedom of it all.

When the car finally glided back down to the platform, Sally was breathless and grinning.

"Again?" Whimsy asked hopefully.

"Maybe later," Sally said, "Let's see what else is here."

They wandered through the dream-park, hand in hand.

Whimsy dragged her to a ring toss game where the rings were made of light and the bottles were shaped like stars. Sally tossed three rings—missed the first two, but the third landed perfectly.

The vendor—a blur of a person with a wide smile—handed her a prize.

A snow globe that showed a tiny version of the ocean they'd just left, complete with swimming dolphins.

"For you," the vendor said in a voice like wind chimes.

Sally held it carefully, watching the tiny dolphins swim.

At the next booth—a dart game with balloons that giggled when you popped them—Whimsy won a jar of fireflies that hummed a lullaby.

Then they came to a booth at the edge of the park, tucked between a funnel cake stand and a hall of mirrors.

The sign above it read: GRAND PRIZE.

Behind the counter stood a different kind of vendor—this one more solid, more real. She was an old woman with kind eyes.

"Step right up," she said warmly. "One throw. Win the grand prize."

She gestured to the game—a simple milk bottle pyramid.

Whimsy looked up at Sally. "You should try."

"What's the prize?" Sally asked.

The old woman smiled and pointed behind her.

Tethered to the booth, floating gently in the air, was a hot air balloon.

It was beautiful—patchwork fabric in every color imaginable, stitched together with golden thread. The basket beneath it was woven from something that looked like willow branches and starlight.

"That's impossible," Sally said automatically.

"So is everything else here," the old woman said. "One throw. That's all it takes."

She handed Sally a ball—soft and light, like it was made of clouds.

Sally looked at Whimsy, who nodded encouragingly.

She took a breath, aimed, and threw.

The ball sailed through the air in a perfect arc and struck the center bottle.

The pyramid collapsed with a cheerful crash, and the old woman clapped her hands.

"We have a winner!"

She untied the balloon's tether and handed the rope to Sally.

The balloon tugged gently upward, eager to fly.

"It'll take you wherever you need to go," the old woman said. "Just hold on tight and trust it."

Sally stared at the balloon, then at Whimsy, who was practically vibrating with excitement.

"We have a balloon," Whimsy said, grinning. "Come on, let's go!"

She climbed into the basket, and after a moment's hesitation, Sally followed.

The moment they were both inside, the balloon began to rise.

The dream-park grew smaller beneath them—the impossible rides, the laughing children, the cotton candy clouds. The music faded to a gentle hum.

And they floated upward, into the space between dreams.

 

The balloon rose higher, carrying them up through layers of color and light that shifted like veils. Sally gripped the edge of the basket, watching the dream-park disappear below them until it was just a smudge of brightness in the distance.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

Whimsy pointed upward. "There."

Sally looked up and gasped.

The sky above them was alive.

Clouds drifted past in impossible shapes—not the vague, accidental formations of the real world, but deliberate sculptures. A cloud shaped like a sailing ship floated by, its sails billowing. Another looked like a dragon, complete with wings and a curling tail. A third was a perfect castle, towers and all.

And flying between them—

Birds.

Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Parrots in every color imaginable—scarlet and emerald and sapphire and gold—swooped and soared through the cloud-sculptures, calling to each other in voices that sounded almost like laughter.

And among them, keeping pace with the parrots, was a chicken.

A flying chicken.

It had the same determined expression chickens always had, but its wings—far too small for its body in real life—carried it effortlessly through the sky. It clucked importantly as it flew past, as if daring anyone to question its presence.

Sally couldn't help it. She laughed.

"A flying chicken?"

"It's a pilot's dream," Whimsy said, grinning. "She flies planes every day, but in her dreams, she gets to fly like the birds. And she always loved chickens, so..." She gestured at the determined bird now circling a cloud shaped like a barn.

The balloon drifted higher, into the heart of the sky-dream.

Parrots landed on the edge of their basket, tilting their heads curiously. One—bright blue with a yellow crest—whistled a melody that sounded like a song Sally almost remembered.

"Hello," Sally said softly, reaching out.

The tiny parrot hopped onto her finger, light as air, and whistled again.

Whimsy laughed and held out her hand to a green parrot with red wing-tips. "They like you!"

The balloon floated through a cloud shaped like an airplane—a perfect replica, complete with propellers that spun lazily. The parrots flew alongside them, weaving between the cloud-sculptures, and the chicken—still clucking—led the way like it knew exactly where they were going.

Sally leaned against the basket's edge, watching the impossible sky, feeling the gentle sway of the balloon beneath her.

"It's beautiful," she said quietly.

"It is," Whimsy agreed. She was sitting cross-legged in the basket now, a parrot perched on each shoulder. "The pilot dreams this often. Flying without a plane. Just her and the sky and the birds."

"Does she remember it?" Sally asked. "When she wakes up?"

Whimsy's expression grew thoughtful. "Sometimes. Little pieces. A feeling, maybe. The sense that she flew." She looked up at Sally. "Most people don't remember their dreams. But that doesn't mean they weren't real."

Sally was quiet for a moment, watching a cloud shaped like a whale drift past.

"Do you think..." She hesitated. "Do you think I dreamed like this? Before?"

Whimsy smiled. "I know you did."  

 

Memories

 

The balloon drifted down from the sky-dream, descending through layers of soft color until the clouds and parrots faded behind them.

"Where are we now?" Sally asked.

"Somewhere different," Whimsy said. "Not dreams this time. Memories."

"Memories?"

"People's favorite ones. The moments they hold onto." Whimsy pointed down. "Look."

Below them, the world had changed again.

They were floating above a small clearing in a forest. In the center stood three painted wagons—bright and beautiful, covered in swirling designs and golden trim. Lanterns hung from their eaves, glowing warmly even though it was daytime.

And in front of the wagons, a show was happening.

Sally leaned over the basket's edge, watching.

A troupe of performers moved through their acts with practiced grace. 

A Card Master performed tricks with his deck of cards. He wore a blue, nearly black long coat edged in rhinestones. He became miffed when a tiny dragon flew away with one of his cards, but the audience laughed as if it had been part of the show all along.

A red-headed woman with a southern drawl did a bit of juggling. She wore a compass on a chain around her neck. 

A young man with blond hair played the most beautiful music she'd ever heard. Meanwhile, a woman with moonlight hair danced and manipulated light. It was truly a beautiful sight.

There was a Story Teller who claimed to be a Mender of Memories. His stories were enthralling, and Sally almost fell out of the basket of the hot air balloon, accidentally leaning too far over the edge. She managed to regain her balance.

A woman was cooking food with a smell that made Sally hungry just thinking about it. And it smelled like something else. Something that pulled on the edge of Sally's memory but she couldn't quite place it.

Two people helped with props and curtains. One gruff and grumpy. The other a young man who seemed to stop and listen every now and then.

Near the wagons, a figure tended to massive cart-pulling creatures—Trotters, Sally somehow knew—speaking to them in a calm, measured voice. They had horns and moved with quiet purpose.

A small audience watched, clapping and laughing— joyful.

"The Traveling Troupe," Whimsy said softly. "This is someone's memory of seeing them perform. They never forgot it."

Sally watched- mesmerized.

"It's wonderful," she whispered.

The balloon drifted on, leaving the Troupe behind.

The next memory appeared below them—a country road, winding and peaceful.

An old couple sat in a vintage car, driving slowly, windows down. The woman's hand rested on the man's shoulder. They weren't talking, just driving, but the contentment between them was palpable. Sunlight filtered through trees overhead, dappling the road in gold.

"A Sunday drive," Whimsy said. "They did this every week for forty years. This is his favorite memory of her."

Sally's throat tightened. The simplicity of it—just driving together, just being together—felt more precious than anything.

The balloon carried them forward.

The last memory was a garden.

Lush and green and bursting with life. Flowers in every color, vegetables growing in neat rows, herbs spilling over the edges of raised beds. And in the center—

A woman with dark hair laughing, dirt on her hands, her face bright with joy. Beside her, a man said something that made her laugh harder. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and she caught his hand, holding it against her cheek.

The love between them was so clear, so present, it made Sally's chest ache.

"Maraina and Hárvald," Whimsy whispered. "In her garden. This is one of her favorite memories—just a normal day, working together, being happy."

Sally watched them, not wanting to intrude on something so intimate, so precious.

Whimsy tugged gently on the balloon's rope, guiding them away.

As the garden faded behind them, she wiped at her eyes.

"Why did you show me that?" she asked.

Whimsy looked up at her, serious now. "Because you forgot that life could have moments like that. Simple ones. Beautiful ones. Moments worth remembering."

Sally stared down at the empty space where the memories had been.

"I don't have moments like that," she said quietly.

"Not yet," Whimsy said. "But you will."

The balloon drifted through soft, golden light—the kind that felt like late afternoon sun filtering through lace curtains.

"One more," Whimsy said quietly. "One more memory."

The world below them came into focus slowly, gently.

A street corner. Cobblestones worn smooth with age. Window boxes overflowing with flowers. And tucked between a bookshop and a bakery—

A tea shop.

The sign above the door read Arden's in elegant script, and through the windows, Sally could see warm light, shelves lined with jars and tins, small tables with mismatched chairs.

The balloon descended, settling gently on the cobblestones beside the door.

Sally and Whimsy climbed out of the basket, and and the moment Sally's feet touched the ground, she felt it—

Warmth. Safety. The sense of being welcomed home.

"Whose memory is this?" Sally asked.

"An old woman's," Whimsy said, looking up at the shop with something like reverence. "She came here every week for years. Always ordered the same tea. Always sat at the same table by the window. This place..." She paused. "This place saved her, in small ways. Every week."

Sally looked through the window.

Inside, she could see the old woman—white-haired, wearing a lavender cardigan, sitting at a table with a cup of tea and a book. Her face was peaceful, content.

And behind the counter there was a young man, with kind eyes and an easy smile. He moved through the shop with quiet grace, preparing tea, arranging pastries on a plate, checking on his customers with genuine care.

Arden.

Sally knew his name without being told.

Whimsy pushed open the door, and a bell chimed softly.

The warmth inside was immediate—not just temperature, but feeling. The air smelled like bergamot and honey and something floral Sally couldn't name. Soft music played from somewhere, barely audible. Every surface seemed to glow with gentle light.

Arden looked up from behind the counter and smiled.

"Welcome," he said, his voice warm. "Please, sit anywhere you'd like."

Whimsy chose a table near the window—not the old woman's table, but close enough to see her. Sally sat across from her, still taking it all in.

Arden approached with two menus, but Whimsy waved them away.

"We'd like your recommendation," she said brightly.

Arden's smile widened slightly. "Of course." He looked at Sally, and for a moment, his gaze seemed to see more than it should. "Something to help you remember, I think."

Sally's breath caught.

He disappeared into the back, and Sally leaned towards Whimsy. "Does he know?"

"He always knows," Whimsy said simply.

Arden returned a few minutes later with a tray. Two cups, delicate and beautiful, filled with tea that shimmered faintly—gold and amber and something that looked like captured sunlight.

He set them down gently.

"This one," he said, gesturing to Sally's cup, "is made from memories of summer afternoons, laughter with friends you haven't met yet, and the feeling of coming home to yourself."

Sally stared at the tea.

"How is that possible?"

Arden's smile was kind but tinged with something else—something sad, something distant. "Everything is possible here. You just have to choose to believe it."

He moved away to check on the old woman, who smiled up at him with such genuine affection that Sally's chest tightened.

Whimsy picked up her cup and took a sip, closing her eyes with contentment.

Sally lifted her own cup slowly. The tea smelled like... sunshine. Like grass and wildflowers and the sound of children laughing. Like things she'd forgotten existed.

She took a sip.

And she remembered.

The realization clicked into place like a key inside of a lock. She remembered what it was like when she was a child. When she was Whimsy.

The tea cup trembled in her hands. She nearly dropped it.

Sally set the tea cup down carefully and looked across the table at Whimsy—at the little girl with wild curls and mismatched dress and eyes that were her own.

"I forgot," Sally whispered. "I forgot all of it."

Whimsy nodded, her expression gentle.

"But you didn't."

"I couldn't," Whimsy said softly. "I'm the part of you that never stopped believing. The part you tried to leave behind."

Sally's eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Whimsy reached across the table and took her hand. "You're here now. You're remembering. That's what matters."

Sally looked around the tea shop—at Arden moving quietly between tables, at the old woman reading peacefully, at the warm light and the impossible tea and the magic she'd spent twenty years convincing herself didn't exist.

"It was always real," she said, her voice breaking.

"It was always real," Whimsy confirmed.

Arden appeared beside their table, his expression understanding.

"The tea helps," he said quietly, "but the remembering—that's all you." He paused, and Sally saw it again—that sadness beneath his kindness, like he understood loss in a way most people didn't. "Sometimes we forget the most important parts of ourselves. But they're never truly gone. Just waiting."

"Thank you," Sally said.

Arden inclined his head and moved away, giving them space.

Sally looked at Whimsy—at herself, at the child she'd been, at the wonder she'd abandoned.

"What do I do now?" she asked.

Whimsy smiled. "You choose. You can go back to your apartment, to your ramen and your job. Back to the life that your wonder left you. Or..." She squeezed Sally's hand. "You can stay. You can remember. You can be Whimsy again."

Sally took a shaky breath and looked down at their joined hands—hers and Whimsy's, adult and child, present and past.

"I don't want to go back," she said quietly. "I don't want to go back to that apartment. To that life. To pretending none of this exists."

Whimsy's face lit up like sunrise. "You mean it?"

"I mean it." Sally felt something loosen in her chest, something that had been tight for years. "I don't know what happens next, but I know I can't go back to who I was. Not after this."

Whimsy jumped up from her chair and threw her arms around Sally, hugging her fiercely. "I knew you'd remember! I knew you'd choose!"

Sally hugged her back—hugged herself, really—and felt tears slip down her cheeks. But they weren't sad tears anymore.

When they pulled apart, Whimsy was practically bouncing. "There's so much more to see! So many places we can go! Oh—" Her eyes went wide. "The library! We have to go to the library!"

"What library?"

Whimsy grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door. "The best one! Come on!"

Sally turned back to wave at Arden, who stood behind the counter watching them with that kind, sad smile.

He raised his hand in farewell. "Safe travels," he said softly.

And somehow, Sally knew he meant it. 

 

Stories

 

They climbed back into the hot air balloon, and Whimsy tugged on the rope with purpose.

The balloon rose, leaving the tea shop and the old woman's memory behind, drifting through layers of soft light and color.

"Where is this library?" Sally asked.

"Everywhere and nowhere," Whimsy said cheerfully. "It exists between all the stories ever told. You can walk into any of them if you know how."

"Walk into stories?"

"Uh-huh!" Whimsy pointed ahead. "Look!"

Through the shifting colors, a building emerged.

It was enormous—impossibly so. A structure made of stone and wood and glass, with towers that stretched up into infinity and windows that glowed with warm, golden light. Staircases spiraled around the outside, leading to doors at impossible angles. Bridges connected sections that shouldn't have been able to touch.

And everywhere—everywhere—there were books.

The balloon descended toward a landing platform—one of dozens jutting out from the library's walls—and settled gently.

Sally and Whimsy stepped out onto solid ground, and Sally stared up at the impossible architecture.

"This is..."

"The Library Between Stories," Whimsy finished. "Come on!"

She pushed open a massive wooden door, and they stepped inside.

The interior was even more breathtaking than the outside.

Shelves stretched in every direction—up, down, sideways, at angles that defied physics. Books floated through the air, drifting like leaves on a breeze. Ladders rolled along tracks that curved and looped. Reading nooks were tucked into impossible corners, some right-side up, some upside down.

And the books themselves—

They glowed. Pulsed. Whispered.

Sally could hear them, faintly—voices telling stories, singing songs, calling out to be read.

"Each book is a doorway," Whimsy explained, walking confidently through the maze of shelves. "You open it, step inside, and you're there. In the story. Living it."

"That's impossible," Sally said, but there was no conviction in it anymore.

Whimsy grinned. "You keep saying that."

She stopped in front of a shelf and ran her fingers along the spines, reading titles that shifted and changed as Sally watched.

"What kind of story do you want?" Whimsy asked. "Adventure? Mystery? Romance? Dragons?"

Sally's heart skipped. "Dragons?"

Whimsy pulled a book from the shelf—large and leather-bound, with a cover that seemed to shimmer with scales. The title read: The Castle in the Clouds.

"This one's good," Whimsy said. "There's a dragon, a castle, a quest, and a really nice knight who makes terrible jokes."

Sally took the book carefully. It was warm in her hands, almost alive.

"How do we...?"

"Just open it," Whimsy said. "And step through."

Sally looked at the book, then at Whimsy, then back at the book.

She opened it.

The pages glowed, bright and golden, and the light expanded, growing larger and larger until it was a doorway—a portal made of story and possibility.

Beyond it, Sally could see a castle perched on clouds, towers reaching towards a radiant sky. She could hear the distant roar of a dragon, the clang of armor, the sound of adventure waiting.

Whimsy took her hand. "Ready?"

Sally smiled—a real smile, full and bright.

"Ready."

And together, they stepped into the story. 

 

They met a bard. The bard greeted them warmly and suggested they follow the forest path. Whimsy led Sally down the path the bard had indicated.

The forest grew denser, the trees taller, and then—

Sally stopped, her mouth falling open.

The trees were made of gemstones.

Trunks of crystalline quartz, branches of amethyst and emerald, leaves of thin-cut sapphire and ruby that chimed softly when the breeze touched them. Light filtered through the gemstone canopy, casting the forest floor in a kaleidoscope of colors—blues and greens and purples and reds, all shifting and dancing.

"It's beautiful," Sally whispered.

"Wait until you see the fairies," Whimsy said.

They walked deeper into the grove, and Sally began to notice movement—flickers of light, quick and darting.

Fairies.

They were tiny—no bigger than Sally's hand—with wings like stained glass that caught the light and scattered it in rainbow patterns. They flitted between the gemstone branches, laughing in voices like wind chimes, playing games of tag and hide-and-seek.

One—brave or curious—flew down and hovered in front of Sally's face.

It had silver hair and wings that shimmered blue and green. It tilted its head, studying her, then reached out and touched her nose gently before darting away with a tinkling laugh.

Sally laughed too, surprised and delighted.

More fairies gathered, circling Sally and Whimsy, curious and playful. One landed on Whimsy's shoulder and whispered something in her ear that made her giggle.

"They like you," Whimsy said.

"I like them too," Sally said, watching the fairies dance through the gemstone light.

For a moment, she just stood there, surrounded by impossible beauty, feeling something she hadn't felt in years, until Whimsy dragged her through the portal.

Wonder.

Pure, uncomplicated wonder.

They stepped back through the gemstone grove, following the path until it led them to a shimmering doorway—the way out of the story.

When they emerged, they were back in the Library Between Stories, standing among the endless shelves.

Whimsy was already scanning the books, her fingers trailing along spines. "What next? Ooh—mystery?"

"Mystery?" Sally moved closer, intrigued.

Whimsy pulled a book from the shelf—dark leather binding, silver lettering that seemed to shift in the light. The title read: The Case of the Vanishing Portrait.

"This one's good," Whimsy said. "There's a detective, a haunted manor, secret passages, and a butler who's definitely hiding something."

Sally took the book. It felt heavier than the dragon story, more serious somehow.

"Ready?" Whimsy asked.

Sally opened the book.

The light swallowed them, and when it faded, they were standing in a grand entrance hall.

Dark wood paneling lined the walls. A chandelier hung overhead, its crystals catching the dim light from sconces. Rain lashed against tall windows, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

A manor. Old, elegant, and definitely haunted.

"Atmospheric," Sally murmured.

"Right?" Whimsy grinned. "Come on, the detective should be in the study."

They walked down a corridor lined with portraits—stern-faced ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow them—and found a door slightly ajar. Warm light spilled through the crack.

Whimsy pushed it open.

Inside, a woman stood in front of a fireplace, studying an empty picture frame on the wall. She wore a long coat and had sharp, intelligent eyes. A magnifying glass hung from a chain around her neck.

"The portrait was here last night," she said without turning around. "And this morning—gone. No sign of forced entry. No footprints. Nothing."

A man in a butler's uniform stood nearby, his expression carefully neutral. "As I told you, madam, I have no explanation."

"Everyone has an explanation, Mr. Graves," the detective said. "The question is whether they're willing to share it."

Sally and Whimsy watched from the doorway as the detective examined the frame, the wall, the floor beneath it. She pulled out the magnifying glass and studied something Sally couldn't see.

"Aha," the detective murmured.

"What is it?" the butler asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

"Paint flakes. Fresh ones." The detective straightened. "The portrait didn't vanish, Mr. Graves. It was painted over. Recently."

The butler's carefully neutral expression cracked. "I—that is—"

"Why would someone paint over a portrait?" the detective asked, turning to face him fully.

The butler sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Because the portrait... wasn't flattering. The late master commissioned it, but when he saw it, he was furious. He demanded it be destroyed, but I... I couldn't. It was beautiful, even if he didn't think so. So I hid it. Painted over it with a copy of a landscape. I thought no one would notice."

The detective's expression softened slightly. "Where's the original landscape?"

"In the attic," the butler admitted.

"Then I suggest you retrieve it," the detective said, "before anyone else notices."

The butler nodded gratefully and hurried from the room.

The detective turned and finally noticed Sally and Whimsy standing in the doorway.

"Observers?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Travelers," Whimsy said cheerfully.

"Ah." The detective nodded as if that made perfect sense. "Well, mystery solved. Not the most exciting case, but they can't all be murders and jewel heists." She smiled slightly. "Safe travels."

Sally and Whimsy stepped back into the corridor, and the manor began to fade around them.

"That was fun," Sally said. "I wanted to solve it myself."

"Next time," Whimsy promised. "But now—comedy!"

They were back in the library. Whimsy was already pulling another book from a different shelf—this one bright yellow with cheerful red lettering.

The Misadventures of Sir Bumble and His Extremely Reluctant Dragon.

"Oh, this one's hilarious," Whimsy said, barely containing her giggles. "You'll love it."

Sally opened the book.

They landed in a meadow, and immediately heard shouting.

"No! No, you're supposed to breathe fire at the knights, not at me!"

A man in ill-fitting armor stumbled backward as a small dragon—no bigger than a large dog—sneezed a tiny puff of flame that singed his eyebrows.

The dragon looked deeply unimpressed.

"I am a knight!" the man insisted, gesturing at his dented armor. "We're supposed to be a team! You're supposed to help me rescue the princess!"

The dragon sat down and began grooming its claws, completely ignoring him.

A woman's voice called from a nearby tower. "I don't need rescuing! I'm fine up here! I have books and snacks!"

"But it's a quest!" the knight—Sir Bumble, presumably—shouted back. "There are rules!"

"I didn't agree to any rules!" the princess called.

The dragon yawned, showing rows of tiny sharp teeth.

Sir Bumble noticed Sally and Whimsy and threw up his hands. "Do you see what I have to deal with? An uncooperative dragon and a princess who doesn't want to be rescued!"

"Have you considered," Sally said, trying not to laugh, "that maybe the quest isn't what you think it is?"

Sir Bumble blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe the dragon doesn't want to fight," Whimsy suggested. "And maybe the princess is happy where she is."

"But then what's the point of being a knight?" Sir Bumble asked, genuinely confused.

The dragon made a sound that might have been a laugh.

"Maybe," Sally said gently, "you need a different kind of quest."

Sir Bumble looked at his dragon, then at the tower, then back at Sally.

"Huh," he said thoughtfully. "I hadn't considered that."

The dragon stood, walked over to Sir Bumble, and headbutted his leg affectionately.

"Alright, alright," Sir Bumble said, patting the dragon's head. "Maybe we'll try something else."

The dragon perked up at that.

Sally and Whimsy were both grinning now.

"Good luck," Whimsy said.

"Thank you!" Sir Bumble called as they began to fade. He started running into the nearby forest. His armor clanking. The dragon following at his heels. 

They tumbled back into the library, both of them laughing.

"That was ridiculous," Sally said, wiping tears from her eyes.

"I know!" Whimsy giggled. "Sir Bumble never figures it out. Every book, he tries a new quest, and it always goes wrong in the best way."

Sally felt lighter than she had in years. The laughter, the absurdity, the pure fun of it—

This was what she'd been missing.

They stepped out of the library, and the hot air balloon was waiting for them, tethered to the impossible architecture.

But this time, Whimsy didn't climb in.

"One more place," she said softly. "Before you decide what comes next."

"Where?" Sally asked.

Whimsy took her hand. "The Past"

 

Whimsy

Whimsy touched the Veil and opened another Threshold. They stepped stepped through. Sally recognized it immediately.

A park.

Small, ordinary, with swings and a slide and a merry-go-round that squeaked when it turned. Grass worn thin in patches. A chain-link fence separating it from the street beyond.

Sally's chest tightened.

"I know this place," she whispered.

"I know you do," Whimsy said quietly.

They walked across the grass, and with each step, Sally remembered.

She was a child, sitting alone on the swings, writing in a notebook balanced on her lap. Stories about dragons and fairies and painted worlds. Stories where she was brave and loved and seen.

And then the other children came.

"What are you writing, weirdo?"

"Let me see—oh my god, it's so stupid."

"She thinks she's special. She's not. She's just weird."

They laughed. They grabbed her notebook. They tore pages out and threw them in the mud.

Sally tried to get it back, but they pushed her down. Called her names. Left her there, crying, clutching the ruined notebook.

She stopped coming to the park after that.

Sally stood by the swings now, her hands gripping the chains.

"I remember," she said, her voice shaking. "They were so mean."

"They were," Whimsy said. "And it didn't stop there."

No. It didn't.

Sally remembered going home to a house that didn't feel like home. Her mother had remarried, and her stepfather—

He didn't want her. Didn't like her. Made it clear every day that she was in the way, a burden, an inconvenience. Stupid. Not good enough.

'Stop daydreaming and do something useful. You're just being lazy.'

'You're too quiet. What's wrong with you?'

His words were like a physical blow. Over and over, until she started to believe them.

She wasn't special. She wasn't wanted. She was just... in the way.

Her mother didn't defend her. Didn't see. Or maybe she saw and chose not to intervene, too tired, too worn down by her own struggles. Working to provide for them all.

Sally stopped writing stories.

Stopped talking about the painted worlds and the veils between.

Stopped being Whimsy.

Because the world had made it very clear: there was no place for her. Not as she was.

So she became someone else. Someone small and quiet and practical. Someone who didn't dream, didn't hope, didn't believe in magic.

Someone who survived.

Sally sank down onto the swing, tears streaming down her face.

"They broke me," she whispered. "The kids, my stepfather, all of it. They made me feel like I wasn't a person. Like I didn't matter."

Whimsy sat on the swing beside her, her small feet not quite reaching the ground.

"They tried to break you," she said gently. "But they didn't. Not completely. Because I'm still here. You're still here."

Sally looked at her—at the little girl with wild curls and bright eyes, at the part of herself she'd tried so hard to bury.

"I forgot how to see the magic," Sally said. "I forgot how to open the veil."

"But you remember now," Whimsy said.

Sally closed her eyes.

And she did.

She remembered the feeling—the way the air shimmered when a veil was near. The way her heart knew, even when her mind doubted. The way she could reach out and choose to see, to step through, to believe.

She opened her eyes and looked at the park.

And there—

Between the swings and the slide, barely visible, the air shimmered.

A veil.

Sally stood slowly, her heart pounding.

She walked towards it, Whimsy beside her, and reached out her hand.

The shimmer responded to her touch, rippling like water.

"I can see it," Sally whispered. "I can see it again."

"You never lost it," Whimsy said. "You just stopped looking."

Sally pressed her palm against the veil, feeling the warmth, the possibility, the magic of it.

"I'm not going back," she said firmly. "Not to that life. Not to being small and quiet and invisible. Not to pretending none of this is real."

"Then what are you going to do?" Whimsy asked.

Sally looked down at her—at herself, at the child she'd been, at the wonder she'd reclaimed.

She hugged the child tightly.

"I'm going to choose," Sally said. "I'm going to choose wonder. I'm going to choose magic- whimsy. I'm going to choose me."

Whimsy smiled, bright and proud. "Good."

And then, gently, she began to fade.

"Wait— Where are you going?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Whimsy said, her voice growing softer. "I'm going home. Back where I belong."

"I don't understand—"

"You remember now," Whimsy said, "You can see. You can choose. I was always just the part of you that refused to forget." She smiled. "But now you remember. So I can go home."

Sally understood then.

Whimsy wasn't leaving. She was returning. Becoming part of Sally again. Whole.

"Thank you," Sally whispered.

"Thank you," Whimsy said. "For coming back. For choosing wonder."

And she faded completely, dissolving into light that flowed into Sally's chest, warm and bright and right.

Sally stood alone in the park, but she didn't feel alone.

She felt whole.

For the first time in a little more than twenty years, she felt whole.

She walked across the park until she reached the shimmering space she'd noticed earlier. She reached out. She felt the soft fabric of the veil like gossamer in her hand. She knew what she needed to do. She pulled back the fabric and stepped through.

It was effortless. Easy. It was as if she had never stopped crossing between worlds.

And as she told her younger self, she never returned to a life without whimsy.

She traveled through paintings, dreams, memories, and stories. She lived in magic and wonder. In worlds where money didn't rule everything.

She chose to Live.

She chose joy.

 

THE END (THE BEGINNING)