Rowan and the Guardian of Dreams

There was, on the outskirts of a gray land shrouded in endless mists, a village called Ravenwood, where the houses were small, the rooftops weathered, and dreams as rare as the winter sun.

There lived Rowan, a young woman with a solemn expression and deep eyes, as though she carried more thoughts than years.

Rowan had been born into poverty and raised within fragile walls and long silences. Her parents, once filled with hope, had learned to live without expecting anything from tomorrow. They were content with the little bread upon the table and the endless repetition of their days, for they had abandoned the habit of dreaming.

And when one loses the habit of dreaming, one also loses the will to struggle.

But Rowan was made of different substance. Her heart burned with desires too vast for Ravenwood. She dreamed of distant lands, bustling streets, and a life in which she could offer her parents more than quiet resignation. Yet whenever she dared to speak of these dreams, she was met only with sympathetic glances and weary smiles, as though they were listening to a child speak of unreachable stars.

The young men of the village watched her with silent admiration, for Rowan was of marriageable age. Yet she desired none of them—not out of pride, but because her soul was too vast for such narrow horizons. The young women, meanwhile, kept their distance. They said her appearance was too somber, that her thoughts were far too strange, and so Rowan walked alone among the living.

While some households celebrated abundance because they had managed to preserve their dreams, Rowan's home knew only necessity. She ate what little there was, wore clothes that had survived the years, and with each passing day felt increasingly exhausted, as though something unseen were draining the life from her.

What Rowan did not know was that, in the nearby forest, there lived an ancient witch, bent beneath the weight of hatred and sustained by the suffering of others. She fed upon sorrow as others fed upon bread. Whenever she sensed a soul drowning in despair, she approached in disguise—sometimes as a cat with watchful eyes, sometimes as a gentle dog with quiet footsteps.

Many times, while returning from work or gathering firewood, Rowan encountered these animals. Instinctively, she would stroke them, seeking the affection she lacked. And with every touch, her strength was stolen, drop by drop, while the witch grew stronger. Unknowingly, Rowan had become the richest feast in the entire forest.

As time passed, the exhaustion became unbearable. Her dreams slowly sank like stones into deep waters.

Until one night, she surrendered.

She decided to accept her fate, marry someone from the village, and bury forever the life she had never been allowed to live.

But destiny, when it encounters true resistance, sometimes answers.

One day, while gathering firewood among the ancient trees, a white owl with golden eyes landed upon a fallen log.

"Rowan," the bird said, its voice as clear as the ringing of an ancient bell.

The young woman trembled.

"How can you speak? Who are you?"

"I am a Guardian of Dreams," replied the owl. "I protect those who endure suffering without surrendering to it. Your grief is drowning your dreams, and they are the most precious treasure you possess."

Rowan felt tears burn in her eyes.

"But I am losing my strength... I can no longer carry what I long for."

"That is because of the witch," the owl answered. "She was once my friend, long ago. But greed drove her to desire knowledge of the future. She tried to take my place and, for that, she was cursed. Now she survives by stealing the life force of those who suffer, ensuring that they never dream again."

"How can I stop her?" Rowan asked.

"By refusing to feed her power," the Guardian replied. "The day you stop cultivating your suffering, she will have nothing left to harvest. She cannot be killed—but she can be driven from your life."

That very night, Rowan made the decision that would change everything.

She returned home and announced that she was leaving.

Her parents could not believe her. They warned her that the world was cruel, that dreams could not fill empty tables.

Even so, she left.

She arrived in a great city where carriages rolled through busy streets and the air itself seemed filled with possibility. She found work under an elderly hatmaker—a lonely but honorable man.

When he died, he left everything he owned to her.

Through hard work and courage, Rowan built a new life from that unexpected inheritance. She married a humble man, and together they made what they had received flourish.

Years later, she returned to Ravenwood to bring her parents home.

And when they saw her, something long forgotten awakened within them.

For the first time in many years...

...they dreamed again.

As for the witch, it is said she was never seen in that forest again.

For wherever suffering is no longer cultivated, no shadow can remain.

And so the old tale is still told today:

Dreams do not die because they are too great. They die only when we stop defending them.

By Ketty Williams