In an anxious city that was once an old town, and before that, a medieval village, slept a woman who’s silver hair was so long and knotted that it wove itself into what looked like an elaborate spider web where things got entangled. If you were to see into her mane with a magnifying glass, you would observe tiny worlds unfolding: little men sword fighting, little women running complicated errands and even a cat or two appearing out of dark alleys. And there was this one strange habit she had: a gift, a phenomenon, or perhaps a curse, that would depend on how the reader interprets phenomena of this kind. This ability kept her in a state of sleep, enjoying her good dreams, and sometimes, she even drifted into the horrid dreams of others, those that somehow reached the outer edges of her forest—and this infuriated her becasue the quality of her sleep dimnished. In this way, she slept for long periods of time, traveling through other-dimensional spaces learning about the fates of people and their nightmares. One day, after waking up from a mediocre, long century’s rest, she realized that the world appereard even more dark and dull, and it almost seemed that it would soon disappear into the void. She was tired of having to see the world in such distress, and of having to withstand the nightmares of others, so she decided to go into town to see about this problem. Maybe she could find the source of their suffering and help them, somehow. And herself. That day, she put on her red furry coat and a winter’s hat. Around her neck, she wrapped a scarf her great-grandmother had woven with thin strands of silvery moonlight—at least, that’s what her mother had told her. And she believed her, because legends of the ancestors always had a way of being more true than life itself. Down the path she went, away from her little house, away from her world of charm and sleep. After about what seemed just a few steps, the first little house came on view. She stepped close and peered through the cold, frosted window: a man, alone, hunched over a table. His brows furrowed in frustration as he stared intensely at a device in his hands. She’d never seen anything like this before. The constant swiping up and down seemed to have distorted, not only his hands, but also the way he saw the world, his life, and his surroundings. She knocked on the door. “Who is it?” a gruff voice travelled from deep within the house. She knocked a second time and a third until heavy footsteps grew near. The door swung open and the man stood tall, very tall. His face held a burden so heavy that it was hard to see the truth of him. The lines on his face spelled a life of waiting—for what, he had long forgotten. His fingers twitched against the device in his hands, as if uncertain whether to let go or continue the ritual the long-held ritual of scrolling. “I’m just passing by, looking to see if you could spare some oil for my lamp,” she said. Her hair crackled with a strange electric sound as she leaned forward, a low fizzing escaping from her tangled knots. A flicker of movement stirred within them: tiny dark shapes, skittering, trapped in the shifting strands like insects in amber. “Oil for a lamp?” “Yes” said the old woman as she handed the weathered lamp to him, “that would be wonderful!” The tall man squinted at the lamp, lifting it closer to his face. His fingers, still twitching, brushed the rim. At that moment something in the air seemed to shift: the weight on his face, on his shoulders, especially on his shoulders, wavered. “Why would this lamp need oil?” he murmured, his voice lower now. “What kind of oil?” The old woman smiled. “The kind that clears the haze from the eyes,” she said, watching him carefully. Her hair crackled again, a tiny spark jumping from the tips. Something in her mane struggled, writhing for dear life as it got pulled deeper into the knots of hair. The man inhaled sharply. His fingers loosened. The device in his hands felt suddenly cold, unfamiliar. He looked at it with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think I have any oil,” he muttered. The old woman nodded. “Ah well. Perhaps you’ll remember where to find it.” She turned, stepping lightly onto the street, leaving behind only the faint scent of burning air and a strange lightness in the room. In this way, she appeared at many people’ doorsteps, knowing, waiting, listening. She watched as their reflections rippled in mirrors, as their fingers trembled over projects never completed, as their shadows stretched long and restless burdening them with heavy thoughts. Each time, the same strange sound: her hair fizzling, sparking, pulling unseen things from the air, trapping them into the realm of her shifting knots. At the end of the second day, weighed down by her hair that had grown heavier and by the burden of wakefulness, she longed for sleep. So, she returned home at dusk, slipping through the trees and the path leading back home. Before going to bed, she sat before her old wooden mirror, its glass dusted with the faint glow of the moon. She reached for her comb—a thin, delicate thing, carved from bone. With slow careful strokes, she ran it through her hair. And as she did, the things she had gathered in town began to loosen. Shapes unraveled, slipping free: a dark beetle unfurling its wings, a wisp of smoke curling into the cold air. One by one, they lifted, pulled toward the open window, almost in a path, drifting upward until they reached the pale light of the moon. Her hair lightened. Her breath deepened. Her mane now flowed like a silver river current. She placed her comb beside her bed, and lay down to sleep. This time, her dreams would be her own.