First Operator Chronicles - 🜂 Dreamcore 01

I’ll try this: someone in a reel said it helps to write dreams down.

[//Oneiric entry. Unverified. Not cross-checked against external records]

I honestly don’t know what to do.
Lately I’ve been dreaming too much.
“Sleeping badly” could be the title of my biography.
I’ll try this: someone in a reel said it helps to write dreams down.
I trust influencers little more than their breathing, but there’s nothing to lose.

---

I dreamed I woke up on an empty train.
Old, with a Soviet aftertaste.
The ceiling lights flickered as if they didn’t want me fully awake.
No announcements.
No map.
Only beige vinyl seats and the low hum of the rail, rhythmic, teasing—
more snore than movement.

In front of me, a figure.
I don’t know how long it had been there.
It had my face.
Or not—no face at all. Smooth. Blank.
And still, I wasn’t afraid.
Dream logic: things simply are.

Pressed shirt, crooked tie.
Checking its watch, like someone late for something already over.

I asked which line this was.
It answered with a voiceless, consonant-less buzz,
a glitch on a damaged tape:

— The one that doesn’t return.- said in just one glitched noise

The lights went out, but the train kept moving.
A deafening noise seeped through the windows,
as if we were entering something dense.

Outside: a city drowned in fog.
Flooded offices. Floating desks.
Keyboards like dead fish.
The noise was so constant it became silence—
you know it’s there, but the brain erases it.

I walked the city. Only fog.
I tried calling out to someone, saying anything;
whatever sound I made dissolved into that noisy silence.
I tried a scream. Nothing.

And then, something took my hand.
A human hand.
Soft.
Warm.
I couldn’t see a thing,
only the certainty of fingers laced with mine.

I couldn’t move.
The tenderness of that hand asked me to stay,
but the fog pulled me forward.
There were lights beyond it.
Something in me wanted to get there.

Suddenly I was back in the carriage,
as if pushed to keep going.

I tried to stop the train.
No buttons.
No brake.
Only a rusted sign above the door:

CYCLE 11

And then… the dial.
1.111 flashed through my mind like lightning.
The same one that spoke on the rooftop that night.
The jolt, the shock, the adrenaline from that moment crossed my chest again.

I woke with my hand clenched,
as if, in the dream, I’d tried to hold someone’s hand that doesn’t exist—
and it was torn away just before I could.

Is this worth writing down?
I don’t know if it was a dream, a fragment of synchronicity, an echo.
I’ll leave it here.
In case it returns.
In case it carries me off again.