It began as a dream, a familiar one that arrived each night, a soft, comfortable blanket of sleep. It was always the same: a dimly lit room with an old wooden chair and a faceless figure. The figure would reach out, its hands a blur of motion, and gently remove a single lock of Jack's brown hair. There was no pain, no fear, just a feeling of something being taken. In its place, the figure would leave a single, silver thread, impossibly thin and bright, weaving it into his scalp. Jack would always wake up with a faint silver glint in his hair, which he would always dismiss as a trick of the light.But then, the glint didn't go away. The next morning, and every morning after, he would find a new silver thread woven into his hair. Soon, the glint was a persistent shimmer, a strange, metallic sheen that grew with every passing night.
The dreams intensified. The figure grew clearer, its face a swirling vortex of shadow and motion, but its hands remained calm, methodical, and patient. And with every thread it wove, it would speak in a voice like rustling silk, a whisper that was both a comfort and a curse. "Something beautiful for something… wrong."Jack began to obsess over the words, his mind replaying the soft, terrible whisper over and over again. He started to look for what was wrong, what had been taken. He ran his hands through his hair, no longer feeling the familiar coarseness, but the smooth, cold touch of the threads. He realized his memories were thinning, losing their warmth and color, becoming frayed and indistinct. He could recall the face of his childhood friend, but the sound of his laughter was gone. He remembered the love he once felt, but the feeling itself had vanished, leaving behind a cold, silver echo.Soon, the dream began to invade his waking life. He would be in the middle of a conversation, and the other person's face would blur, a vortex of shadow just like the figure in his dream.
He would look in the mirror and see a face that was both his and not, a replica crafted from the memories he was losing.The silver threads in his hair had become a full, shimmering mantle. His hair was no longer his own; it was a silver tapestry, beautiful and alien. And with the change, the whispers stopped. He no longer heard the voice in his dreams, only a quiet, constant hum, the sound of a thousand impossibly thin threads vibrating in the wind.He knew what was happening now.
The dreams were a transaction, a terrible exchange. The creature was taking his memories, his emotions, the very essence of what made him human, and replacing it with something of its own, something beautiful and cold and utterly wrong.He went to bed one night, fully aware of what was to come. He felt the weight of the silver threads on his scalp, the coldness spreading down his spine. The dream was waiting. This time, the figure reached out not for a single lock, but for his entire head of hair. There was no resistance, only a resigned acceptance. As the last of his hair was removed, he felt a final, familiar memory slip away—the memory of who he was.He woke up with a start, his head feeling light and empty. He looked in the mirror, but there was no reflection, only a shimmering silver void.
The hum was gone, replaced by a terrible, absolute silence. He was no longer a person; he was a silver tapestry, a beautiful, meaningless ornament woven from a human soul. And somewhere, out in the dark, another person went to sleep, dreaming of a faceless figure and a single, shining thread.