When I opened my eyes, the light was wide and open.
Not the harsh kind of bright — the kind that fell from somewhere high and spread itself evenly, the air beneath it full of noise. Crowds. Music. The low mechanical rumble of something turning in the distance, layered over everything else. I stood where I was, letting my vision focus, letting my mind catch up to what was around me.
An amusement park spread out in front of me.
The colours were vivid to the point of being slightly wrong — every block of colour oversaturated, as if someone had taken reality and turned the contrast up by two or three degrees. A carousel rotated not far off, its lights cycling through pink and yellow and white in a steady, even rhythm. A Ferris wheel rose further back, close enough to the sky to seem like it was touching it. Somewhere overhead, the rush and fall of a roller coaster carried past — a long trailing scream of laughter that stretched out and dissolved in the air.
Without thinking, I glanced toward the entrance.
The exit door was there — quiet, standing to one side of the main gate, edges traced with that familiar pale glow. Something placed here that didn't quite belong, like an object left in the wrong room.
"What are you staring at?"
A voice from beside me. I turned.
He was standing there, hands in his pockets, profile turned toward the distant carousel — as if he'd been standing there waiting the whole time. His eyes, his posture, that particular quality of ease with something else just beneath it. All exactly as I remembered.
"Dad?"
He turned and looked at me, smiling slightly. "Didn't you say you wanted to come here? Now you're just standing there."
The feeling was strange — too natural, natural in a way that made it hard to know whether to question it. Part of me said something was off. Part of me said: it doesn't matter.
"Come on. You're in charge today," he said.
I nodded once and followed him in. People moved around us on both sides. A child's laughter cut through the noise — sharp and clean, making the place feel more real somehow.
We made it to the roller coaster queue, which stretched back a considerable way.
"Looks like a long wait," I said. "But that's fine, I think."
He glanced at me. "Since when do you not mind waiting?"
"That was before."
"Growing up now?" He smiled.
"At least I won't walk away just because of a queue."
"Noted. Next time you complain about waiting, I'm bringing this up."
I laughed.
The line moved slowly, then not so slowly — a few people ahead of us drifted off one by one, each with a small excuse. By the time the pace had settled, we were nearly at the front.
When I sat down, the wind had already picked up. The car launched, and everything else was left behind — all the noise swallowed in an instant, replaced by speed and air and the laughter forced out of my lungs whether I wanted it or not.
"Again?" he asked.
"No — let's try something else."
"Whatever you say."
Later, we rode the Ferris wheel.
Before we boarded, I hadn't expected much from it. But as the small transparent cabin rose slowly and the park below began to contract, I understood for the first time why people bother. The whole park lay spread beneath us, lights pressed together in one continuous field, every spinning, glowing, flickering thing reduced to a small bright point, densely arranged — like someone had pushed holes through dark fabric and let the light come through.
"Beautiful," I said.
"Mm." He leaned against the side of the cabin, watching me instead of the view. "You were terrified of heights when you were small. Wouldn't even get on this. You cried before we got to the gate."
I thought back. "I remember. You held me and said don't look down, just look ahead."
"Right," he said, smiling. "And then when we got to the very top, you looked down anyway, and told me it wasn't actually that high."
I laughed. "I still don't know if I was really not scared or just didn't want you to think I was."
"Probably both," he said. "That's how you've always been. Whatever it is, you hold it together first. You wait until you're actually okay before you say you're okay."
I didn't answer. I just looked at the lights below.
The cabin began its descent, the wind brushing past the walls. His words sat quietly in my mind. Hold it together first. There are times when it's not about not wanting to say something — it's that saying it doesn't change anything, so you might as well just hold on.
We kept walking through the park. Pirate ship, carousel, the shooting stalls — one after another. Some spots had no queue, some we'd barely stepped up to before it was already our turn. Everything arranged itself so perfectly, perfectly enough that I eventually stopped ignoring it — this world ran on what I wanted. I could feel that now.
Whatever I wanted here, this place would give it to me.
At a lucky draw stall, the vendor called out as we passed. "Want to try your luck?" He looked at me. I nodded, pulled a card at random, unfolded it.
I stopped.
A small white rabbit, sized just right to hold, with soft ears and a thin pale blue ribbon at its neck, finely made. I'd seen it before — a limited release, sold out the day it went on sale. I'd saved the image on my phone. It was still there.
"Isn't that the one you said you wanted?" he said.
"Yes."
"Lucky day."
I held the rabbit, touched one soft ear with my fingertip.
We kept walking. Time moved without me watching it — I wasn't tracking it, didn't care to. I just walked beside him, stopped, laughed, walked again.
At some point he challenged me to a basketball toss.
"You won't make it," he said. "Bet you. If you lose, you're buying."
"And if you lose?"
"I'll get you two."
"Deal."
The first shot missed. He laughed. I ignored him. The second went in. So did the third.
I looked at him. "Well?"
He raised his hands. "Okay, okay. You win."
I laughed — and the laugh came from somewhere that didn't pass through any filter first.
After a while, we found a place that looked like a candy house. Glass cases filled with desserts, every one the colour of something I liked. I took a strawberry cake and a piece of chocolate, sat down, and ate slowly. The sweetness spread across my tongue, and with it came a thought, rising clearly.
This is a dream.
Not a guess. I knew.
What was strange was that knowing it didn't make me want to leave. It did the opposite — it made everything feel more settled. Of course it is. That's why everything works like this. Whatever I want, it's here. Whatever I'd like to happen, it does. This place was built for me. I only have to stay in it, and everything will be exactly as I want.
I looked up. The park was still moving — light, noise, people — as if the world needed no reason to continue. It simply did, as long as I was here.
The sky began to darken. The park lights came on one by one, making everything brighter and warmer than before, slightly quieter somehow. I stood among it and watched, and something floated through me — light as a thought, almost gone before it arrived:
What if I could just stay here.
The thought was light. But it didn't leave.
I looked down at the rabbit in my hands. Still there, soft ears, pale blue ribbon catching the light. I pressed my thumb gently across one ear, and then — without knowing why — another face surfaced.
Dad.
Not this one. The real one. The one probably sitting in the living room right now, television on, volume not quite low, glancing at the door every so often, or checking the time on his phone. He wouldn't call to rush me — he never did. He would just wait. Since Mum left, that was how he'd been. Quiet, not saying much. Just waiting — for me to come back, for the door to open again, for confirmation that I was still there.
I didn't know if he knew he was waiting. But I did.
The rabbit pressed slightly in my hand. I stood up slowly.
I looked toward the entrance. The exit door was still there, quiet, edges still lit, waiting.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
I looked at him. Looked at the lights. At the whole park.
"Yes."
"Come back again sometime."
The words were easy, natural enough to believe. I gave a small nod, and walked slowly toward the door.
I stood at the threshold, pressed my hand against it, and pushed.
Light spilled out. I walked through.