Lusianna
THEY say that dreams are not meaningless. Some believe they were experiences from our past lives or messages from our future selves. Others say dreams are simply thoughts we have before we fall asleep. For me, my dreams are my memories.
“…Sianna.”
There was a woman’s voice that kept calling my name—a woman who I think was very dear to me.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Sianna?”
I looked up at the woman, and I saw a beautiful one. She looked like a majestic being, the kind you’d think was impossible to exist in the world. Her skin complexion was between pale and normal. She had long hair, and her lips were curled into a smile as she looked at me. But her eyes... they were dead. The perfect example of someone who kept smiling while fighting something inside.
“Mom,” I call
