Written for the Chiaroscuro Writing Extravaganza (Again) event - please read part 1 by Kaos_Kitten and part 2 by Overlord_Aqua_2 first!

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This time I’m prepared for the dream, then. My roommates are concerned at my lack of fear; when I hear the roar of escaping steam at noon on the dot, blanketing my ears with its phantom vibration, I don’t even flinch. I keep my eye out for the metallic slip every day when I return from the study room. But instead, all I can trace is the patterns of sun stretching through blinds, and then, as winter draws closer and the days get shorter, moonlight - always across a blank windowsill. The ticket never comes.

I begin to wonder again. Does someone know that I’m not afraid of the dream any more? But, surely, there isn’t a person who runs the dream train. It’s a dream. It’s in the name, after all. It is, perhaps, my subconscious, then, like the nightmares and the rest. Some bad trick to torture myself. Or if dream analysis is to be believed, the clouds and the covering of the eyes means something. Like I need to stop lying to myself or tricking myself about what I perceive. That interpretation sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy, though - like just persuading myself that what I’m seeing isn’t real, even if it is. And besides, how would that explain the physical ticket? Or the rumours about the train from everyone else?

I start to ask around in earnest. The other souls who seem to cohabit this library - they never should have made it open twenty-four hours, not when our sleep schedules are already so distorted - some of them share my fears of the dark, of the unknown. It is hard not to, when modern life is so chaotic, can change in a single heartbeat. They hear the train, too, although they don’t want to talk about it. But others seem to be able to roll with the punches of life’s chaos, accept or tune out the train. Some don’t hear it at all. They must have other fears; of boredom or unfulfillment perhaps. Of waking up one day in a picket-fenced house with two and a half kids and a spouse they don’t love any more. That’s never scared me. I trust myself more than that. Well, maybe that’s too generous. I have too much fear to ever become complacent. Or maybe - had. If I don’t need to worry about the dream train, perhaps I can move on from my other fears too.

I’ve started studying in my bedroom more, now. I can trust myself to read in bed, oh, comfy bed, and still be productive. I’m allowed to be comfortable, surely. And it works - the room is warmer than the drafty library, and I can put posters up, too, if I forget the worry of damaging the walls. If I’ll never get another ticket, I don’t need to be vacant from my room in case of its arrival. I could safely watch the windowsill all day, if I really wanted to. Perhaps grow a few plants.

It takes longer than I’d admit to realise the phantom steam is getting quieter in my brain, day by day. And I’d never admit that this realisation causes a wave of panic and adrenaline to course through me.

Of course, I may not have to. Because that is the moment, mid-instinctual panic, that I see the ticket, staring gleefully up at me from the windowsill, once again.

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Hope you enjoyed! Definitely didn't write this in a slight fervour the night before the deadline, so I hope it's alright. Maybe I'm just getting into the student mindset of incredible procrastination for the story's purpose. Yep, definitely. I tried to match my writing style a bit more closely to the original so hopefully it comes across as more cohesive, but who knows! It's gone midnight here! Time for sleep, methinks.

Have a good day and remember no feeling is final,
~lyliaa

EDIT: I forgot that July had 31 days. I wasn't even that close to the deadline. Whoops.