There was a city built around a perfectly round lake.

No one remembered who built it.

No one remembered why.

The city simply existed,

as though the lake

had dreamed it

into being.

Every street curved gently,

following the shape

of the water.

Every house,

every café,

every little bookstore,

every flower shop,

every bakery,

every bridge,

faced the lake.

No matter where you stood,

you could always see

its quiet water.

The lake

was impossibly clear.

During the day,

it reflected the clouds

so perfectly

that birds sometimes flew lower,

thinking another sky

waited beneath them.

At night,

it reflected every star

with such honesty

that no one could tell

where heaven ended

and the lake began.

The water

never rippled.

Even the wind

crossed it gently,

as though afraid

to disturb

its dreams.

Upon the surface,

thousands of little lights floated.

Not lanterns.

Not candles.

Tiny glowing shapes,

each different.

Some resembled folded paper boats.

Some looked like tiny flowers.

Some were little stars.

Some were feathers.

Some were simply

small spheres of warm light.

Every one

drifted peacefully

across the lake.

No current guided them.

Yet none ever collided.

They moved

like people

who somehow knew

where everyone else

was going.

People called them

dreams.

Others called them

hope.

No one knew

which was true.

Perhaps...

they were both.

Around the lake,

the city remained awake.

Every bakery

displayed fresh bread

behind spotless glass.

The smell

of warm butter

still drifted

through empty streets.

Bookstores

stood with their doors open,

their shelves filled

from floor to ceiling.

Tea houses

waited quietly,

cups already resting

upon polished wooden tables.

Flower shops

overflowed

with blossoms

that never faded.

Tiny bells

above every doorway

still rang gently

whenever the breeze arrived.

There was no one there.

Not a single person.

Yet nothing

felt abandoned.

The street lamps

glowed softly.

Window curtains

moved gently,

as though someone

had just walked past.

Fireplaces

continued burning.

The clocks

continued ticking.

Somewhere,

far away,

a piano quietly played

one note.

Then another.

Then silence.

One deep night,

when the moon

hung low above the lake,

a young woman

walked

along the circular road.

She carried

an old camera.

Its leather strap

had faded with time.

She had stopped

taking photographs

years ago.

Still,

she carried it.

Across the lake,

a young man

sat upon

an empty pier.

Beside him

rested

a folded letter.

Its envelope

had never been opened.

He often wondered

whether opening it

would change anything.

So he never did.

Eventually,

their paths met

beneath a street lamp

whose light

looked warmer

than ordinary light.

The woman smiled.

"So..."

"...you're here too."

The man nodded.

"I suppose I am."

Neither asked

where the other

had come from.

Places like this

already knew

that every traveler

had walked

a very long way.

Together,

they wandered

beside the lake.

Their footsteps

echoed softly

through empty streets.

Every shop

welcomed them.

Every doorway

stood open.

Yet neither entered.

The city

didn't feel lonely.

It simply...

felt patient.

The woman

looked toward

the floating lights.

"They're beautiful."

"They are."

"What happens..."

"...when one reaches

the other side?"

The man smiled.

"I've been wondering

the same thing."

For a long while,

they simply watched.

Tiny lights

continued drifting

across the mirror-like lake.

Some moved quickly.

Others

barely moved at all.

Yet every one

continued forward.

The woman

raised her camera.

She looked

through the viewfinder.

Then lowered it again.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"If I take the picture..."

"...I'm afraid..."

"...I'll never come back."

The man looked

toward the quiet city.

Then asked,

very softly,

"Do you believe..."

"...memories disappear..."

"...just because..."

"...we stop looking at them?"

She thought

for a long moment.

Then slowly

shook her head.

They reached

a little stone bridge.

It crossed

a narrow stream

that connected

to the great round lake.

The stream

was filled

with floating petals

instead of water.

Above them,

every house

continued glowing

with warm golden light.

No shadows

felt frightening.

Even midnight

looked gentle here.

The man

finally picked up

the unopened letter.

"I've carried this..."

"...for years."

She nodded.

"You don't have

to open it."

"I know."

He looked

at the drifting lights.

"I think..."

"...I was never afraid..."

"...of what it says."

He smiled

for the first time.

"I was afraid..."

"...that after opening it..."

"...I'd have no excuse..."

"...to stop waiting."

The city

became wonderfully quiet.

Even the floating lights

seemed

to slow down.

The woman

placed her camera

upon the bridge rail.

"I carried this..."

"...because I thought..."

"...it was protecting..."

"...my memories."

She looked

at the lake.

"But perhaps..."

"...the memories..."

"...were protecting me."

The man

carefully placed

the unopened letter

beside the camera.

Neither object

floated away.

Neither disappeared.

The city

simply accepted them.

As though

it had always known

they would arrive

one day.

A single light

drifted close

to the shore.

It wasn't brighter

than the others.

Only nearer.

The woman

watched it quietly.

"What do you think..."

"...those lights really are?"

The man

looked

at the endless lake,

where countless hopes

continued their silent journey.

Then answered,

"I don't think..."

"...they're dreams..."

He smiled.

"...I think..."

"...they're the moments..."

"...when people..."

"...choose..."

"...to believe again."

The woman

closed her eyes.

The night air

smelled faintly

of fresh bread,

flower petals,

and rain

that had fallen

many years ago.

She listened

to the ticking clocks,

the distant piano,

the quiet bells

above empty shop doors.

The city

was alive.

Not because

someone lived there.

But because

hope still did.

Before dawn,

their paths

slowly separated.

The young woman

continued

clockwise

around the lake.

The young man

walked

the other way.

Neither said goodbye.

Some cities

didn't require

farewells.

They simply waited,

their lights always on,

their doors always open,

their streets forever peaceful,

until another weary traveler

arrived

needing to remember

that even in the deepest night,

there could still exist

a place

where hope

never fell asleep.