The Dream Machine: a short story about grief

I took my first ride as all good first rides happen—through a dream.

It was supposed to be simple, a fleeting visit to memories long past. But when I built the dream machine, I didn’t intend for it to just be a vessel for nostalgia. No, this was my escape.

“Yesterday, tomorrow—that’s where you’ll be. Welcome aboard,” the travel guide’s voice pulsed from the walls of the machine. It always had this strange sing-song quality to it, like it was sharing a secret I wasn’t quite meant to hear.

Dreamscaping. That’s what they call it. A novelty for most, a way to bounce between the strange and the impossible, weaving through dreamlands that shift like sand underfoot. But for me, dreamscaping was never about the surreal. It was about the people. About the ones who slipped away.

I was never really good at grief. When she passed, I didn’t cry—not at first. I think I’d forgotten how. But the empty space where she used to be became unbearable, a hollow thing that echoed louder with every quiet day. So I built the machine. Not to run away, not really. Just… to linger a little longer.

Each night, I’d slide into its metallic embrace, cables coiling around me like whispers, and off I’d go. Back to her. Back to *us*.

We’d meet in dreams—reliving moments that should’ve lasted forever. Or, at least, felt like they should. One night, we strolled through the old market, the one with cobblestone streets and too many colors. She wore that smile, the one that made her eyes crinkle at the edges like paper folding just so. “You can’t eat all the strawberries,” she teased. “Try me,” I said, and we both laughed because we knew there was no limit here.

Another night, we danced in a field of wildflowers under a sky that couldn’t decide whether it was sunrise or sunset. It was beautiful, but that’s the thing with dreams—they’re never meant to stay. The morning would always come, pulling me out with it, back to the quiet house.

People think grief is loud—wails, sobs, breaking things. But it’s the silence that hurts the most. The way life continues like nothing’s missing, like the world didn’t lose its color when they left. That’s why I built the dream machine. Because in my dreams, I still had the colors. I still had her.

“Don’t you think it’s time to let go?” she asked me one night, the words drifting like leaves caught in a soft breeze. I froze. In the dream, we were standing on a bridge over water that wasn’t quite there—an ethereal, shimmering fog where the river should’ve been.

I shook my head. “Not yet. Just one more ride.”

She sighed, that soft, knowing sigh that said more than words ever could. “You’ve been saying that for years.”

“I know.”

But there’s something they don’t tell you about dreams. They’re tricksters. They give you everything and nothing at all, filling you with moments that never quite belong to the waking world. And the longer you stay, the harder it becomes to leave.

The machine hummed each time I climbed inside, as if it too knew this couldn’t go on forever. But I wasn’t ready to face mornings filled with the weight of absence. Not yet.

Every night was a gift. Every morning, a curse.

I’ll tell myself tonight’s the last. That I’ll let go. But when the sun sets and the room fills with shadows, the machine beckons, soft and welcoming.

“Come on,” it whispers, like an old friend. “One more ride. One more moment. One more chance to be with her.”

And I’ll listen, because in the dream world, she’s still there. Still laughing, still dancing. And for a few brief hours, the ache in my chest quiets. But I know, deep down, that she’s right.

Grief isn’t something you escape. It’s something you carry. You can’t live forever in dreams, no matter how perfect they may seem.

But for tonight, just one more ride.