A fractured dream persisted only as long as the dreamer kept it alive, as long as they didn't forget.
It clung to the hope that something was missing, but never fully understanding what it was.
The mind, deceived by its own consciousness, never let the dreamer grasp it completely.
But the moment the last thread that linked them was severed, when the dream was truly forgotten, the fragment was abandoned.
And that's when the horror began, a relentless, unforgiving surge.
Sometimes it hit with force, destroying everything in its path; other times, it was a slow, creeping horror.
What had once been fleeting, ephemeral, creatures seen as hallucinations, now took on a corporeal form, becoming something real. Something that wasn't meant to be.
And even with the countless onslaughts, there was always more than enough space in their world for these things.
And for the endless spread of new horrors that followed in their wake.
Why, then?
