Chapter I – Three Images

Sunday, April 23, 2034.

She had first appeared on Tuesday morning, when I woke up, and since then, she had taken control of my thoughts and my days. She had manifested out of nowhere, unexpected, like a surprise—or rather, a shock. At first, she was just an image, the third of that distressing awakening that had disrupted my peaceful life. The cover of a restaurant menu with the inscription Yucatan, her elegant left hand with a small tattoo on the wrist, and finally, her beautiful face filled with fear and urgency. Three sharp images, appearing like flashes that morning, accompanied by a strong, painful sensation of heat that coursed through my body, from head to toe.

I remember sitting on the bed for a long time, sweating, my heart in my throat, unable to move. I thought it was just a nightmare. Seven days had passed since my last mission, and since I had never had any issues with the previous ones, I hadn’t paid much attention to what had happened. After recovering from the shock, having a quick breakfast, and briefly glancing at the latest news, I left the house with a good book and a towel, heading to Hudson River Park, where I spent the afternoon. When I returned home, I ordered dinner from my favorite Japanese restaurant and accompanied it with a couple of Kirin beers, watching an American football game absentmindedly. The evening ended with me playing my favorite video game until late.

On Wednesday morning, Anna took a more defined form, becoming even more real. Upon waking, once again, a wave of heat swept through my body, followed by three rapid flashes. The first two were identical to those from the previous day: the cover of the Yucatan restaurant menu and the delicate female hand, with the rosebud tattoo on the wrist. In the third flash, however, the static image from the day before transformed into a brief animated sequence. Looking into my eyes, Anna pleaded with me: “Gabriel, help me.” A blinding and distressing apparition that made me jump and lose consciousness.

I opened my eyes, exhausted and drained, as if I had just gone through the toughest workout. Anna had called me by name. Her image, her voice, were too clear to be the product of my imagination. The following hours were spent searching for her, digging into my recent past with the help of Angélique, my virtual assistant. I tried to find a memory of her, but in vain. There was no trace of Anna, neither in my movements nor among the people I had met.

On the third day, Thursday morning, Anna finally revealed her name. Upon waking, the three flashes merged into one continuous, longer sequence, and even the sensation of heat became softer. I saw her again sitting at the table, her left hand resting next to the Yucatan menu. The tattoo was still there, clearly visible. With a sweet but fearful look, she pleaded once again: “Gabriel, help me.” This time, as if I were looking in a mirror, I responded: “Don’t worry, Anna. I’m here with you.”

After repeating that scene in my mind several times, for fear of forgetting it, I began to suspect that her appearance was connected to my last mission. It couldn’t just be a dream. I had to find answers. Contacting Real Dreams would be useless; I risked compromising my work. I decided to investigate on my own.

While searching for information, I found an article that spoke of residual fragments of dreams. The author claimed that a sudden awakening, during the phase of dream cancellation, could leave incomplete traces; these, if stimulated by sensory experiences, could resurface as conscious memories. My plan was simple: expose myself to as many sensory experiences as possible.

I started exploring the city, trying dishes from different cuisines in various neighborhoods of New York. But on Friday morning, upon waking, my apparition had not appeared. I woke up with the impression that I hadn’t dreamed at all.

Even on Saturday morning, there was no vision and no memory of any dreams. The temptation to give up was strong, but the feeling from the previous days pushed me to continue. If my father had been in my place, he wouldn’t have abandoned the search so easily.

That evening, after a long day spent exploring Brooklyn, I decided to ask Paul for help. I had known him for about a year through our online game, Future-Chess. Paul, known as Baron Paul from New York, was a legend among players. Once, he had asked me about my work, and when I mentioned Real Dreams, he immediately changed the subject, asking me to forget the conversation. I later learned, from another player, that Paul worked at Real Dreams, but he never spoke of it to anyone. Since then, he hadn’t included me in any tournaments, though we still played together from time to time.

After waiting for hours without him connecting to our online game, I sent him a message:

April 23, 2034 – 01:00 am
“Hi Paul, how are you? I need your help and would like to meet in person. Are you available today (Sunday) for a coffee? Thanks. Gabriel.”

Tired from the long day, I fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter II – Jackpot

Monday, April 17, 2034.

“Good morning, please take a seat.”

“Good morning, Mr. Gibson, may we sit at a table?”

Without further formalities, I showed the Real Dreams agent to my kitchen table. A familiar face, probably seen before, or perhaps just a trick of my mind; I was happy to see a real person after so many days. With a few precise gestures and without saying a word, the agent unlocked the magnetic clasp and removed from my wrist the torture device I had worn 24/7 for six days and six nights. He inspected it quickly and carefully placed it in an anti-static envelope. I was finally free. After putting it in the inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small plastic bag containing my Bralex and placed it on the table. I tried to offer him a coffee to celebrate my regained freedom, but he refused; he seemed in a hurry to return the precious device to someone. After signing the electronic receipt, he simply wished me a good day and left.

I immediately put on my Bralex, which, having half of its charge still available, activated as soon as it touched my wrist, bringing my virtual assistant, Angélique, back to life.

My twentieth mission for Real Dreams had been completely different from the others. The pay was exorbitant, and the security measures were extreme ­— unprecedented. I had been asked to stay locked in my apartment for six days, with an absolute ban on going out, receiving visitors, or communicating with the outside world. Most importantly, I was forbidden to remove or damage the surveillance bracelet they had put on me right after the mission. It was a simplified version of the Bralex, without a projector, but with the same level of control. Being monitored day and night, even in the bathroom and under the shower, had been unpleasant, but nothing compared to the repeated interrogation upon waking. A ritual that had almost made me lose the desire to sleep.

Every time I woke up, day or night, the bracelet activated and asked me the usual four questions:

“Full name?” – “Gabriel Gibson.” “Age?” – “29 years old.” “Address?” – “315 W 34th Street, New York, NY 10001.” “Occupation?” – “Professional dreamer and sports coach.”

I was very familiar with these questions; they were part of the wake-up protocol for Real Dreams’ missions and were usually asked by a real person. Even on this mission, upon waking at Real Dreams’ premises, I had answered the doctor on site. But soon after, he had locked my left arm with what I had dubbed the intelligent torture device, which repeated the interrogation ritual every time I woke up. I couldn’t find any logic behind it; I considered it ridiculous, but it was a condition I had accepted for this special mission.

On the third day of isolation, after an unscheduled afternoon nap, I decided to be cheeky and answered Donald Duck to the first question. My sense of humour wasn’t appreciated. The synthetic voice informed me that the incorrect answer would result in a reduction of my pay, and it repeated the sequence of questions from the beginning. From that moment on, I obeyed like a well-trained soldier.

What a relief to find my Bralex and Angélique again! While scrolling through the accumulated notifications from that long week, I received the one I had been waiting for: Real Dreams confirmed the completion of the mission and the transfer of funds. I immediately checked the account: $195,000. An enormous sum, which would have been $200,000 if I hadn’t made the silly Donald Duck joke. For the previous missions, I had received an average of $10,000 each, but this time the payment was more than twenty times that. I wondered what client had paid Real Dreams such a sum for this mission? But I knew it was useless to investigate. Confidentiality was guaranteed: each mission was divided into several phases, each managed by a different specialist. And, apparently, only the central AI had access to all the data, ensuring complete anonymity.

It was a beautiful spring day, a Monday. After a week trapped in my apartment, I couldn’t wait to get out. Wearing my sneakers, a light jacket, and my favourite sunglasses, I decided to take a long walk to Central Park. Walking up Seventh Avenue, I literally savoured the images, sounds, and smells. After the isolation, I was starved for sensations. It seemed like I discovered something new at every corner: a detail on a building, the colour of a sign, the shine of store windows.

At the park, the sensory feast continued. Tulips and daffodils were in full bloom, and the cherry trees at Cherry Hill were beginning to blossom. I sat on a bench and lost myself in the beauty of that moment, realizing how lucky I was. Thanks to the payment from the mission, I could spend my Mondays in the park for an entire year, while thousands of people in my city worked frantically like ants, holding their breath until the next break.

I had left that frantic world less than two years ago, and it seemed like an eternity had passed. Yes, I had been part of that relentless world. After my master’s degree, I had been hired by an investment bank to work on the artificial intelligence team. Initially, I was hired as an Artificial Intelligence Learning Designer, responsible for defining learning processes for AI. The project was an immediate success; after only a year, I was promoted to AI Manager and, after another nine months, AI Director. At twenty-six, I was the youngest director at the bank, heading a team of thirty specialists.

I became a sort of circus phenomenon. The young prodigy who tamed the power of artificial intelligence, acclaimed by executives and shareholders. Our CEO and the board of directors, unable to truly understand how AI worked, showcased me as a trophy: business lunches, receptions, galas, and even exclusive weekends in Aspen or the Bahamas. I was in demand, wanted everywhere, and every new opportunity seemed interesting. It seemed impossible to say no.

My dream apartment in New York? I only used it to sleep four or five hours a night at most. The rest of my time was completely absorbed by work. I felt like I was on a high that seemed endless. I thought I was in control, not realizing I was just a pawn in a game that wasn’t mine. More, more, and faster. Until that Monday.

A Monday that started like all the others, with the only physical activity I still practiced: my morning jog. Turning the corner of a building, I collided violently with a man around fifty years old. It was six in the morning, a time when I rarely crossed paths with anyone. The impact made him fall to the ground, but fortunately, he didn’t hit his head, and he didn’t appear to have any visible injuries. After making sure he was okay, I apologized and invited him for a coffee at a nearby café.

His name was Marc. He was fifty-three years old and had been out of work for three months. Since then, he had suffered from insomnia. His wife, a nurse, came home very early, at the end of the night shift, and Marc would wait for her every morning to greet her. After seeing her come in, he would go for a long walk, letting her rest peacefully. That morning, nostalgia for happier times had driven him to walk to his old office. While staring at the window on the twelfth floor, he didn’t see or hear me coming.

For over twenty years, Marc had worked at the same company, starting as an assistant and eventually becoming the financial manager, heading a small team. The company had been doing well, but to remain competitive, it decided to modernize various departments, including accounting, by automating repetitive processes with artificial intelligence. In no time, most of the work was automated. Only a handful of younger people remained in his team, assigned to manage 10% of special operations while monitoring the remaining 90%, now managed by AI. A department too small to need a financial manager.

After twenty years of loyalty, the company had fired him, offering him two months of salary and medical insurance. As support for retraining, they had paid for three coaching sessions to help him find a new job. During the first one, he learned that for every available accounting job in New York, there were thousands of candidates. In the second, it became clear that his experience was worth nothing in a job market dominated by technology. Finally, in the third, he discovered that the only sector still hiring was “security,” offering modest salaries far from what he had earned before.

Marc was a dignified man, but his story was full of melancholy. He was afraid of weapons, but he was ready to overcome that fear and even accept a lower salary just to find a job. To finance his security guard training course at a private school, he had invested all his savings and taken out a loan, secured by a mortgage on their modest apartment.

Lost in his story, I didn’t notice the time passing. When I looked at my watch, it was already time to head to the office, as I usually did. Before parting ways, I asked him to connect our Bralex devices so we could stay in touch and get updates on his health in the coming days. Marc, with a tired smile, reassured me that he was fine and agreed to my request to connect.

Once home, I asked Angélique to transfer $10,000 to Marc, with the following message:

“Please accept this contribution for your training. I’m sure you will make it, and one day, you’ll be the one helping someone who deserves it. Gabriel.”

That meeting changed the course of my life. I decided not to go to the office that day. I spent the day in the park with my Bralex off: a good decision, actually an excellent one, but not the last of the day. When I got home, I made an even more important decision: I would never go back to that office. I resigned. I gave up an excellent salary and stock options that would have surely made me a young millionaire, but I took back control of my life. In the following weeks, my employer tried everything to get me back: tempting offers, veiled threats. In the end, they gave up. Abruptly closing that chapter of my frantic life plunged me into one of my lows, from which I slowly emerged, thanks to contemplating nature.

From that Monday on, every visit to the park felt like freedom, and it became a balm for my soul whenever my mood faltered.

After eating a New York Dog and taking a long break at Public Fare, I headed north and arrived at East 110th Street Playground just before sunset. The playground, which I was used to seeing full of children, parents, and nannies, was strangely empty. In that surreal calm, a young couple was tenderly kissing on a bench. My joy turned into melancholy. I was free, even financially, but I was alone. Very alone, too alone, for too long.

Chapter III – A Special Mission

Monday, April 10, 2034

“Received.”

With a simple word, I confirmed the receipt of the notification from Real Dreams:

“Confirmation and summons: Mr. Gibson, we have received your digital authorizations for your next mission. We remind you that you are expected tomorrow, April 11, 2034, at 2:00 PM at the Real Dreams laboratory for dream preparation. Please use the garage entrance, as the main one is currently closed for maintenance. A member of our staff will meet you at elevator F. Best regards, ODD Service of Real Dreams.”

They had contacted me on Easter Monday, just one day before, for an urgent mission. In addition to being imminent, it had to be extremely important. The contract, usually a simple page with date, time, and compensation, was different this time: it seemed tailor-made. The compensation, including an urgency bonus, was exorbitant and written in full to avoid misunderstandings. It was not a mistake. Moreover, there was a long list of special security measures to be followed before and after the mission. A one-night assignment, but with conditions never seen before.

So much money, a lot of money, and extraordinary precautions for a one-night dream.

Living off dreams, without ever needing to make them real. From up there, my maternal grandfather must have been laughing hard. He didn’t speak much, perhaps out of shyness, but when he did, his words weighed like stones. When my mother called the grandparents on video, it was always Grandma who answered, while Grandpa preferred to stay aside. But one phrase of his had stayed with me and accompanied me through my brief sports career: “It’s nice to dream, but then you have to work.”

After my father’s death, I spent nearly every summer vacation with my maternal grandparents in Italy. They lived in Ostuni, the White City, just ten minutes from the sea. I was eight years old when I first heard my grandfather say that phrase. Every summer, my mother would leave a large school revision book for me, full of math exercises, grammar, and short readings. I loved reading, but I hated doing homework during the holidays. I spent more time negotiating with my mother than doing the exercises. One day, in the middle of one of our usual discussions, Grandpa entered the kitchen and simply said those words. The conversation ended there, and I immediately got to work.

The best memory, however, was the last one. I was fourteen, and it was my last vacation with my grandparents. Like every year, Grandpa would say goodbye the night before departure and was never present at the moment of the farewell. “I have something to do,” he would say, or “I have to go fishing.” But that morning, I woke up early and found him sitting in the kitchen. He stood up, hugged me tightly in a long, silent embrace, and then we sat down to talk, something that rarely happened. Before leaving, he stopped at the door and once again said to me: “Remember, Gabriel, it’s nice to dream, but then you have to work.”

That memory stayed with me even the day of his funeral. Grandma told me that every time Grandpa thought back to that conversation, he would cry tears of joy. He passed away at the end of 2019, suddenly from a heart attack, while fishing alone. A few months later, Grandma followed him.

The day flew by quickly, and before I knew it, it was already late. The next day would be important. I asked Angélique to play Dream On by Aerosmith and collapsed on the bed