1. Fantasy or reality? (1/2)

a/n: this is my(nicoliamalin) first story that i wrote by myself and post it to the public. so do be nice about the reviews. and if you are willing, check out the other stories we have!

disclaimer: i own nothing

note: this takes place ten years after the "memory crannies" ending. and omg. i wrote this in the middle of...umm the early morning(12am-6am) so there's alot of mistakes...i'll...um...fix them?

[roles:nicoliamalin - all characters]

i sighed as i closed my laptop shut. the clock on the wall read 11:00 pm in a

ight red light. "one more hour before my 19th birthday..." i mumbled to myself in the dimly lit room.

"i wonder if i'll have a dream today." i wondered out loud as i walked over to my bed. ever since the day i visited the guertena exhibition with my parents ten years ago, i had been having dreams every night of a twisted gallery, a gallery with barely any lights and narrow, long corridors, littered with various paintings and nameplates.

all of those dreams felt very realistic, almost as if it did happen, but the strange thing was, could such a thing really happen? paintings couldn't move, and the guertena exhibition that i remembered wasn't as dimly lit as the ones in my dreams.

last night, i think i dreamt the ending of my adventures through the twisted gallery. together with my companion, a purple haired jumpy teenage male, we went through the painting that probably

ought us to the twisted gallery.

in the dreams, i was still nine years old. the way i spoke, walked, and dressed, all of them were exactly the same as the time i was a kid. i remembered finding my companion lying on the ground, on the verge of death, that was how we first met. and somehow, no matter how many times i had called out to him in my dreams, i could never remember his name whenever i woke up.

but i knew, this man, no matter how much of a coward he was, no matter how much he screamed and ran whenever something happened, i knew, if he was not there, i would've never, ever, made it alive out of those adventures, even if they were a dream.

i looked at the bedside table. on it, rested my diary, in which for the past ten years, i have written everything of my dreams the moment i woke up. i opened it, read through it for the last time, before i put it back where it belonged and turned off the table lamp.

"tomorrow...these words-"