Allen Middlemen walked home after getting fired from his job for some bullshit. The anger still clung to him, tight in his chest, so he pulled out his weed and started rolling as he walked, hoping to take the edge off.
As he passed an alley, a voice called out from the shadows.
"Hey— that smells like some good reefer, man. Come over here and share some with me."
Allen jumped, not noticing the man at first. When he turned, he saw an older guy sitting in the back of a van. Something about him felt familiar—comforting, even. He had a hunched back, a long silver beard that reached his chest, and wore a tie-dye peace shirt.
"Sure, man," Allen said, though he mentally kicked himself. He was down to his last nug at home, but he'd never been the type to not share.
As he approached, the old man spoke again.
"You alright, son? You looked a little blue walking past."
Allen shrugged. "Nothing I can't deal with. Just got fired. Trying not to stress about bills, you know? But I'll make it through."
The old man nodded slowly. "I've been there. I know what it's like to worry about surviving—when that's all you can think about." He paused, then smiled faintly. "I dream of a world where nobody has to live like that. Where the only thing people focus on is bettering themselves and the ones they care about."
Allen exhaled, feeling lighter—whether from the weed or the words, he couldn't tell.
"Yeah… that would be the dream, man."
The night wore on. The joint burned down to less than half, and exhaustion started to creep in. Allen just wanted to go home and sleep.
"You can have the rest," he said, handing it over. "Thanks for talking with me. It helped more than I expected."
"No problem, young man." The old man smiled and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small plastic baggie with a bit of weed inside. He held it out to Allen. "Take this—for sharing."
Allen hesitated, then took it.
"Smoke this before bed," the old man added, his smile widening just slightly. "It'll change your whole world before you wake up, my friend."The old man only smiled and waved, his eyes low and distant as Allen walked away.
But something strange happened that night—something Allen could never have known. After he turned the corner and made it halfway down the block, the old man and his van vanished in a small puff of smoke.
Allen continued home, unaware.
When he reached his door, he muttered under his breath. The lock stuck again, just like always. His landlord never fixed anything. After a bit of effort, he forced it open and stepped inside.
He tossed his keys down, heated up a TV dinner, and scrolled endlessly through his phone while he waited. The routine felt automatic, numbing. By the time he finished eating, exhaustion had settled in.
Eventually, he headed to bed and began his nightly ritual.
Every night, without fail, he did the same thing.
He opened his bedside drawer and pulled out his red-and-black hand pipe and grinder. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the baggie the old man had given him. He broke the nug apart, dropped it into the grinder, and twisted until it was fine.
He packed the bowl, lit the top, and inhaled deeply. The smoke was unusually smooth as it filled his lungs. He exhaled, then pulled again. And again. Until nothing remained but ash.
He lay back, waiting.
He didn't feel very high—but he wasn't sober either.
Allen closed his eyes.
Sleep came quickly. A familiar, empty darkness settled over him, the same dreamless void he had known his entire life. Since childhood, he had never dreamed.
Until now.
At first, there were only flashes—bursts of color and light, shifting too quickly to grasp. Faces flickered in and out of existence. For a brief moment, he recognized the old man—but the image slipped away just as quickly.
Then came the sensation of rising.
Higher and higher.
He could not move. He could only observe.
Below him—or around him—there was nothing he recognized. The world, if it was a world at all, felt vast and unknowable.
Something in his mind began to open.
The feeling was impossible to describe.
For a moment, he was himself.
Then, suddenly, he was a butterfly.
Then a tulip.
Then—strangely—he was the old man.
He saw through unfamiliar eyes. He stood before a mirror unlike anything he had ever seen—translucent, wavering, as if it only half existed. His reflection stared back at him, but it felt distant, unstable.
Then, just as suddenly, he was himself again.
And he was falling.
Fast.
The sensation tore through him as his awareness collapsed inward. The dream shattered, and his consciousness slipped back into the empty, dreamless sleep he had always known.
Time passed—though how much, he could not tell.
Then he began to wake.
Pain greeted him first—a sharp crick in his neck, stiffness in his back. His body ached against something hard and uneven.
His pillow—
No.
Where was he?
Allen's eyes snapped open.
He was not in his bed. Not in his apartment.
He was lying on the ground in the middle of the woods.
His clothes were tattered.
Heart pounding, he scrambled to check his pockets. His pipe was still there. So was a small brown leather bag, filled with seeds.
And a note.
The paper was old—far older than it should have been. The writing was uneven, almost faded.
It read:
"Be free, son."