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Trapped inside of a dream, my eyes opened up as a seven year old boy in a pitch black room filled with candles that illuminated the hallway. The electricity appeared to be out, but the glow from the candles and the fire that crept through the curtains helped give the room a dim light.
I observed the room around me: blankets were tied to chairs, creating passage ways and tunnels—sheets filled with cold air, turning them into bubbles that floated over the vents on the floor. My brother’s eyes shined through one of the passage ways, staring back at me. I tried to make sense of his location.
"You're just a kid," my brother said. "You can't save the world.”
I tried to respond to him, but every word seemed to block its way out, holding onto my tongue, and fighting not to be released into the dream.
I began to crawl through the tunnels, looking for my brother, but he was nowhere to be found. The room was tiny, so he shouldn't have been that hard to find, but the passage ways, held up by air bubbles, went on for hours.
I never did find my brother that night.