Hay sueños que no se sienten como sueños, pues cuando tomo medicamentos para las alergias me hacen tener sueños largos, este es uno de ellos y decidí hacerlo historia mas detallada.
No llegan como un caos que se desvanece al despertar, sino como un recuerdo que se instala en el pecho y se queda ahí, insistiendo, como si quisiera convertirse en historia.
Este comenzó en un jardín.
Un jardín inmenso y lujoso, silencioso, perfectamente cuidado, como si nadie se atreviera a romper su armonía. No había casas alrededor, no se veía nada moderno ni cercano. Solo el verde profundo de los setos y, al fondo, un castillo antiguo de piedra clara, hermoso e imponente, vigilando el paisaje con una quietud que daba escalofríos. Era uno de esos lugares que parecen existir fuera del tiempo… o tal vez en un tiempo que no es el nuestro.
Frente al castillo se extendía un gran laberinto, altísimo, bien recortado, tan preciso que parecía diseñado para confundir hasta a la certeza. Y en el centro, bajo la luz dorada del atardecer, había un círculo de mujeres.
No eran damas de corte ni campesinas. Eran mujeres con presencia de brujas o shamanas: telas naturales, colores tierra, marcas de ceniza en la piel, el cabello suelto o trenzado, y una forma de moverse que no parecía danza común, sino una ceremonia. Cantaban en voz baja, como si el viento fuera parte del coro. Un canto suave, antiguo, envolvente.
En el suelo, entre sus pies, había símbolos trazados con pétalos y ceniza. No se veía como algo macabro, sino como algo… íntimo. Como si el ritual no buscara destruir, sino atraer.
No buscaban riqueza ni poder.
Buscaban un vínculo.
Y entonces apareció él.
Elion caminaba hacia el laberinto como si no tuviera alternativa. Iba vestido con una pijama blanca de lino, simple, casi como una prenda de descanso… o como una vestimenta ceremonial sin intención. Estaba descalzo. Su expresión era tranquila, pero ausente, como si estuviera hipnotizado. No parecía perseguir algo; parecía responder a un llamado que ya vivía dentro de él.
Sus pasos eran constantes, firmes.
No dudaban.
No se detenían.
Era como si alguien hubiera pronunciado su nombre dentro de su mente… y él obedeciera, sin cuestionar.
Entre las mujeres del ritual, una lo observaba de una manera distinta.
Maeve.
No lo miraba con frialdad ni con curiosidad. Lo miraba como se mira a alguien que se ama desde hace mucho, incluso si ese amor no se ha vivido todavía. Como si lo hubiera esperado durante años, durante vidas, durante silencios interminables. Maeve no parecía feliz en el sentido humano, pero sí parecía segura. Segura de que el destino estaba ocurriendo exactamente como debía.
A un lado del círculo, casi en sombra, otra mujer lo miraba también, pero sin emoción visible. Su presencia era discreta, vigilante, como si estuviera allí para observar el equilibrio del ritual más que para disfrutarlo. Su nombre, lo supe después, era Naraia. Y aunque no hizo nada que pareciera importante, su forma de mirar… me dejó claro que entendía cosas que las demás no.
El canto se elevó apenas cuando Elion entró al laberinto.
Los setos parecieron cerrarse a su espalda.
Como si el camino hubiera aceptado su entrada.
Elion avanzó entre pasillos verdes que se estiraban y giraban. La luz del sol se filtraba en líneas oblicuas, y por momentos parecía que el laberinto respiraba. No era solo un jardín: era una prueba. Un filtro. Un lugar que decide quién llega y quién se pierde.
Y entonces, al final del recorrido, apareció el arco de piedra.
Un arco antiguo, cubierto de musgo, con símbolos grabados que se confundían con las sombras del atardecer. No era un adorno. Era un umbral. Algo que separaba una cosa de otra. Un borde entre realidades.
Elion se detuvo frente a él.
Por primera vez, su trance pareció vacilar, como si una parte de su conciencia hubiera despertado solo para sentir el peso de lo que estaba a punto de hacer. Apoyó la mano en la piedra… y la piedra devolvió una respuesta.
No fue un sonido.
Fue un pulso.
Como si el arco estuviera vivo, como si lo reconociera.
En ese instante, la voz de Maeve se separó del coro. No gritó. No ordenó. Solo susurró, pero su susurro atravesó todo, incluso el aire:
—Elion… cruza.
Fue la primera vez que escuché su nombre con tanta claridad dentro del sueño, y fue extraño, porque sonó como algo inevitable. Como una llave en una cerradura.
Elion respiró hondo.
Y dio un paso.
Al cruzar el arco, el mundo se rompió.
No como un vidrio que estalla, sino como una realidad que se pliega sobre sí misma. La luz dorada del jardín se distorsionó. El canto se volvió un eco lejano. Y por un segundo, antes de que todo desapareciera, Elion giró la cabeza como si quisiera mirar atrás… como si algo dentro de él supiera que lo que venía después iba a cambiarlo para siempre.
Y entonces… oscuridad.
Como un corte de película.
Como si alguien hubiese cerrado una puerta.
Lo último que quedó flotando fue una sensación: que ese ritual no era solo una invocación, sino una historia que estaba comenzando. Una historia donde el amor no iba a ser simple, ni limpio, ni cómodo… pero sí inevitable. Porque cuando un vínculo se crea cruzando mundos, ya no se trata de “si” se enamoran, sino de cuánto están dispuestos a perder para quedarse.
Este es el inicio.
Elion aún no conoce a Emma.
Emma aún no sabe que un departamento puede ser un umbral.
Y Bran, el guardián, todavía no ha mostrado su verdadero rostro.
Pero el jardín ya habló.
Y cuando un lugar así te llama… no te suelta tan fácil.
There are dreams that don't feel like dreams, because when I take allergy medication, I have long dreams, and this is one of them, so I decided to write it down in more detail.
They don't come as chaos that fades away when you wake up, but as a memory that settles in your chest and stays there, insisting, as if it wants to become a story.
This one began in a garden.
A huge, luxurious garden, silent, perfectly manicured, as if no one dared to break its harmony. There were no houses around, nothing modern or nearby. Only the deep green of the hedges and, in the background, an ancient castle of light stone, beautiful and imposing, watching over the landscape with a stillness that sent shivers down my spine. It was one of those places that seem to exist outside of time... or perhaps in a time that is not our own.
In front of the castle stretched a large maze, towering, neatly trimmed, so precise that it seemed designed to confuse even certainty. And in the center, under the golden light of sunset, was a circle of women.
They were neither court ladies nor peasant women. They were women with the presence of witches or shamans: natural fabrics, earth tones, ash marks on their skin, loose or braided hair, and a way of moving that did not seem like ordinary dance, but rather a ceremony. They sang softly, as if the wind were part of the choir. A soft, ancient, enveloping song.
On the ground, between their feet, there were symbols traced with petals and ash. It did not look macabre, but rather... intimate. As if the ritual did not seek to destroy, but to attract.
They did not seek wealth or power.
They sought a bond.
And then he appeared.
Elion walked toward the labyrinth as if he had no choice. He was dressed in simple white linen pajamas, almost like sleepwear... or like ceremonial clothing without intention. He was barefoot. His expression was calm but absent, as if he were hypnotized. He did not seem to be pursuing anything; he seemed to be responding to a call that already lived within him.
His steps were steady, firm.
They did not waver.
They did not stop.
It was as if someone had spoken his name inside his mind... and he obeyed, without question.
Among the women performing the ritual, one watched him differently.
Maeve.
She didn't look at him coldly or curiously. She looked at him as one looks at someone they have loved for a long time, even if that love has not yet been lived. As if she had been waiting for him for years, for lifetimes, for endless silences. Maeve didn't seem happy in the human sense, but she did seem sure. Sure that destiny was unfolding exactly as it should.
On one side of the circle, almost in shadow, another woman was watching him too, but without visible emotion. Her presence was discreet, watchful, as if she were there to observe the balance of the ritual rather than to enjoy it. Her name, I learned later, was Naraia. And although she did nothing that seemed important, the way she looked at him... made it clear to me that she understood things that the others did not.
The singing rose slightly when Elion entered the maze.
The hedges seemed to close behind him.
As if the path had accepted his entry.
Elion advanced through green corridors that stretched and twisted. Sunlight filtered in at oblique angles, and at times it seemed as if the maze was breathing. It was not just a garden: it was a test. A filter. A place that decides who arrives and who gets lost.
And then, at the end of the path, the stone arch appeared.
An ancient arch, covered in moss, with symbols carved into it that blended with the shadows of dusk. It was not a decoration. It was a threshold. Something that separated one thing from another. A border between realities.
Elion stopped in front of it.
For the first time, his trance seemed to falter, as if a part of his consciousness had awakened only to feel the weight of what he was about to do. He placed his hand on the stone... and the stone responded.
It wasn't a sound.
It was a pulse.
As if the archway were alive, as if it recognized him.
At that moment, Maeve's voice separated from the chorus. She didn't shout. She didn't command. She only whispered, but her whisper pierced through everything, even the air:
“Elion... cross over.”
It was the first time I had heard his name so clearly within the dream, and it was strange, because it sounded like something inevitable. Like a key in a lock.
Elion took a deep breath.
And took a step.
As he crossed the arch, the world broke.
Not like glass shattering, but like reality folding in on itself. The golden light of the garden distorted. The singing became a distant echo. And for a second, before everything disappeared, Elion turned his head as if he wanted to look back... as if something inside him knew that what came next would change him forever.
And then... darkness.
Like a cut in a movie.
As if someone had closed a door.
The last thing that lingered was a feeling: that this ritual was not just an invocation, but a story that was beginning. A story where love would not be simple, nor clean, nor comfortable... but inevitable. Because when a bond is created across worlds, it is no longer a question of “if” they fall in love, but how much they are willing to lose to stay together.
This is the beginning.
Elion does not yet know Emma.
Emma does not yet know that an apartment can be a threshold.
And Bran, the guardian, has not yet shown his true face.
But the garden has already spoken.
And when a place like this calls to you... it doesn't let you go so easily.
Videos hechos con freepik.com interna con varias IA seedance, veo3, kling, nano banano.
Edición de video con filmora 15
Traductor Deepl.com
musica, voces y ambiente creada con IA freepik
Videos created with freepik.com using various AI technologies: seedance, veo3, kling, and nano banano.
Video editing with Filmora 15.
Translator Deepl.com.
Music, voices, and ambiance created with freepik AI.
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