in another world, a dream catcher is not an object. he is a boy with ribs like an open birdcage, standing at the edge of the city, mouth open, waiting. he swallows the dreams people don’t want. the ones they sweat out in the night—falling, mother drowning, hands reaching but never touching. he takes them in like communion, lets them settle under his skin, a kaleidoscope of other people’s ghosts. somewhere, a girl wakes up feeling lighter, not knowing why. somewhere, a man who should have killed himself by now doesn’t. the boy walks through the streets with a belly full of nightmares. he does not sleep. when he tries, the dreams come up his throat like oil, slick and choking. his body is not his own; it is a landfill of sorrow, a museum of fear. he learns that pain has accents, that grief hums different in every language. he learns that a mother’s hands can still bruise even in dreams. he tells himself this is a kindness. but sometimes, at night, when the city exhales and the streetlights flicker like tired eyes, he wonders what it would be like to dream for himself. to close his eyes and see something soft, something that does not ache. but when he reaches inside, all he finds are other people’s broken nights. so he does what he always does. he opens his mouth. and swallows.