День четвёртый Гильдия « От чайников до…» Так, напевая. эти слова: баю, баюшки, баю умудрилась уснуть и хорошо так. Даже сон смогла какой-то просмотреть- что то яркое, весёлое, будто я ещё маленькая и на плечах у папы, и мама рядом, и сестрёнки все тут. Все на речке дружно купаемся, смеёмся. А потом, как будто тучка закрыла солнышко и ветер налетел очень холодный, прям ледяной. Проснулась от того, что замёрзла, что лежу на кровати, не укрытая пледом, рядом Джейн глазёнки таращит. Ох,пойду ка я на кухню, выпью горяченького чая!🫖☕ А ведь в спальне ощущается какой-то запах, не могу понять какой, как будто речной водичкой. Странно!
—Ну вот наконец то она ушла, еле успел нырнуть обратно в коробку А ведь как хорошо пошло: и песенку, как по заказу, запела, и уснула. Сон такой прекрасный появился, это я,наверно ,поторопился, изголодался по эмоциям, начал быстро впитывать в себя. Ну ничего, на сегодня я насытился. А завтра продумаю дальнейшие действия 🧐

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Guild: Double D’s

Day 4 — Empty Bed

By now the Bedroom felt like a crime scene with better pillows. My own bed was completely empty—no blankets, no pillows, no me-shaped dent. Just one single, lonely feather floating in the middle of the mattress like a tiny white flag of surrender.

The dream that left was mine. A soft, golden, summer-afternoon dream where the whole guild was having a picnic on a giant floating cloud, eating endless ice cream and never getting brain freeze. When it slipped away, it left behind the tiniest trace: the smell of warm grass and vanilla, a faint butter-yellow glow on the sheets, the distant sound of everyone laughing at once, and this overwhelming feeling that everything was going to be okay forever.

Lala hugged the empty bed and said, “This is the rudest theft ever. You don’t steal someone’s happy ending nap!” We all agreed. The Collector had officially crossed the line from quirky to downright villainous.

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LBB 

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Jour 5 Le collectionneur découvert
Guilde To the Manor Born
Pendant la nuit j’ai entendu des bruits étranges venant du coffre mystérieux, je me suis levée discrètement pour voir ce qui se passait, j’ai vue que le coffre était légèrement ouvert j’ai décidé de jeter un coup d’œil à l’intérieur et ce que j’ai vu m’étonna il y avait le collectionneur de rêves qui était coincé dans le coffre par un mage maléfique parce qu’il avait volé les rêves j’ai décidé d’ouvrir le coffre reprendre les rêves et les remettre au Guilde.
Merci 🥰

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Mamie code 667a2c

Day 5 — The Collector Discovered

On the fifth night, the air in the Bedroom felt heavier, like the room itself was holding its breath. We searched everywhere—under the rug, behind the curtains, inside the closet that always smells faintly of cedar and forgotten laundry—until LaLa spotted it on the windowsill, half-hidden by the moonlit curtain: a Spectral Pitcher.

It was beautiful and impossible. The pitcher itself glowed like polished ivory, smooth and cool to the touch, and inside swirled a liquid that shimmered with gentle pulses of purple and blue, like captured twilight. When we lifted it, the light inside moved slowly, almost thoughtfully, as though the dreams it held were swimming in slow motion.

The moment our hands touched the handle—Julie’s fingers brushing mine, John steadying the base so it wouldn’t tip—the pitcher sang. Not with sound, but with memory. Every stolen dream poured out in soft, glowing streams: the Professor’s cherry-blossom laughter, Laura’s cliffside scream of freedom, Julie’s mirror-dance smiles, my rooftop picnic under impossible stars, and so many others we hadn’t even known were missing. They swirled around us like friendly ghosts, brushing our cheeks, ruffling our hair, reminding us what it felt like to hope without fear.

In the center of the light stood the Collector: no longer a shadowy figure, but a quiet, tired presence made of the same ivory glow as the pitcher. He looked at us with eyes like faded ink. “I thought if I kept them safe here,” he said in a voice soft as turning pages, “they’d never fade. But dreams aren’t meant to be bottled. They’re meant to be lived.”

We didn’t argue. We didn’t need to. One by one we tipped the pitcher, letting the light flow back into us, into the room, into the empty spaces we’d been carrying without realizing. The purple-blue glow settled into the corners of the Bedroom like a long exhale. The Collector grew smaller with each dream returned, until he was only a faint shimmer, then nothing at all—just a quiet thank-you left behind in the air.

John set the now-empty pitcher back on the windowsill. It looked ordinary now, just beautiful glass. “Guess that’s it,” he said, voice rough but satisfied.

Julie grinned through shiny eyes. “We just defeated a dream-hoarding ghost with friendship and stubbornness. We’re basically legends.”

Completion — The Morning After

We woke up in a glorious heap on my bed, blankets everywhere, sunlight pouring through the window and catching on the Spectral Pitcher, which now sat harmlessly on the sill, holding nothing but ordinary morning light. LaLa was already complaining that someone (probably John) had stolen all the good pillows. Julie was humming off-key, trying to recreate the little song the dreams had made when they came home. Laura was pretending she hadn’t cried happy tears at 3 a.m., and John—gruff, wonderful John—was already halfway out the door to start coffee because “someone has to be the adult here.”
I sat up, stretched, and looked at them—my loud, ridiculous, irreplaceable crew—and felt something settle deep in my chest. The Bedroom wasn’t haunted anymore. It was just… ours. Full of late-night talks, terrible sleep schedules, shared blankets, and the kind of friendship that doesn’t need grand gestures to be real.

LaLa threw a pillow at my head. “Pancake time, fearless leader. You owe us extra whipped cream for saving the entire dream supply of the Lodge.

I laughed, ducked, and threw it right back. “Deal. But John’s on bacon duty.”
Five voices groaned and cheered at once.
And just like that, the mystery was over.
The dreams were back where they belonged.
And so were we—together, messy, laughing, and exactly as we should be.

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Tara 🇺🇸 031cde
Guild: Double D’s

Guild: Double D’s

Day 5 — The Collector Discovered

The fifth night we didn’t wait for dusk. We tore the Bedroom apart—curtains down, drawers emptied, mattress flipped.
Underneath the empty bed, behind a loose floorboard none of us remembered being loose, we found the final object: an ancient string of stone beads, smooth and cold, the kind a woman might wear while weaving feathers into a dreamcatcher centuries ago.
The Collector had been hiding inside the dreamcatcher itself all along.
Not in the feathers, not in the crystals—but in the empty circle at the center, the hole meant to let good dreams pass through while catching the bad. He had turned it inside out, using the sacred net as his prison and his pantry. Every time one of us dreamed something vivid enough to matter, he reached through that empty space and pulled the dream into his collection, storing it in the place where nightmares are supposed to fall away forever.
We didn’t defeat him with spells or salt or clever riddles.
We did it by refusing to dream beautifully anymore.
Lala started first—she dreamed of folding laundry, endlessly, gray and boring. Laura followed with grocery lists recited in monotone. John imagined tax forms. Tara gave him forty-three consecutive dreams about waiting in line at the DMV. I dreamed about watching paint dry—literal paint, very slow, very beige.
He starved.
The stone beads cracked. The circle snapped.
And all the stolen dreams poured back at once—joy, shame, drowning lies, furious flight, everything—flooding into us so fast we couldn’t breathe around the color and noise and ache of being human again.
When it was over the dreamcatcher lay in pieces on the floor, ordinary feathers and string once more.
The Bedroom was quiet. Too quiet.
John looked at the wreckage and muttered, “Well. That was anticlimactic.”
Lala grinned, sharp as broken glass. “Good. I’m sick of interesting.”
We slept that night—really slept. No shadows. No whispers.
Just the small, stubborn sound of five exhausted people breathing in the same room, refusing to give anything else away.
And somewhere in the dark, I swear I heard the faintest sigh… not angry. Just… disappointed.
Quest Complete.
The dreams are back where they belong.
And we’re keeping the boring ones for ourselves from now on.

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