Chapter 4: The Architecture of Sleep
The University Canteen was never just a place to eat. To Lecturer Ezekiel, a man who taught Cognitive Psychology and lived for the study of the subconscious, the canteen was a vast, clattering map of the collective mind. Between the scent of sizzling sisig and the rhythmic thumping of the juice dispensers, he saw the neurons of the university firing in real-time.
It was the fourth day, the 9:00 to 10:30 AM vacant slot for Room 302. Ezekiel sat at a corner table, a small notebook open beside his black coffee. He was a "witness" of a different sort; while Reyes watched the stars and Reinn watched the cells, Ezekiel watched the dreams.
His eyes drifted to a central table where a four-top had formed—a quartet that was becoming a recurring pattern in the faculty's observations. Leo and Maya were seated across from Marcus and Elena.
"It's called the WILD technique," Maya was saying, her hands gesturing as if she were weaving silk out of the humid morning air. "Wake-Induced Lucid Dreaming. You don't just fall asleep; you keep your consciousness awake while your body shuts down. It's like... walking through a wardrobe, but the wardrobe is your own frontal lobe."
Marcus, his fingers habitually stained with the charcoal of his latest sketch, leaned forward. "If I could control the dream, I'd build the ceilings first. In reality, gravity limits how high we can go. But in a lucid dream? I could design a cathedral made of water."
"But time is the problem," Elena countered, tapping the face of her vintage watch. "In a dream, ten minutes can feel like ten years. If you're too aware that you're dreaming, the 'clock' breaks. You wake up because the brain can't handle the paradox of living a lifetime in a REM cycle."
Ezekiel scribbled a note: The Architect and the Timekeeper. Searching for structure in the infinite.
"What do you think, Leo?" Maya nudged the boy beside her.
Leo was staring into his cup of mountain coffee, his expression unreadable. He looked like a man trying to stay grounded while everyone else was floating away. "I think it's dangerous," he said finally, his voice low. "If you make the dream too real, what's left for the real world? You might wake up one day and everything else feels... lacking. Like the colors aren't bright enough."
Maya's smile softened, turning into something more intimate. "Or maybe the dream is just a rehearsal, Leo. A way to practice for the versions of us that don't have to deal with gravity or... endings."
Ezekiel watched the way Leo's gaze caught hers. The boy wasn't looking at a classmate; he was looking at a gravity well. He was the anchor, and she was the kite.
"Do you think," Maya lowered her voice, leaning into the center of the table, "there's a dimension where our lucid dreams are 'the real life'? What if we're just the dreams of the 'other' us?"
The table went silent for a heartbeat. Marcus stopped sketching. Elena stopped tapping her watch. Even the clatter of the canteen seemed to dim, as if the University of Remembrance itself were leaning in to hear the answer.
Ezekiel took a sip of his bitter coffee. Lucidity, he thought. The moment the dreamer realizes they are the author. But what happens when the author realizes the story is already written?
Ezekiel couldn't help himself. He was a man who preferred observing from the tall grass of his own thoughts, but the conversation at that table was pulling at the threads of his lecture for next week. He stood up, his coffee cup empty, and navigated the maze of plastic chairs until he stood at the edge of their circle.
"The problem with the 'Other Us,' Maya," Ezekiel interjected softly, "is the cost of the bridge."
The four students looked up. Marcus instinctively tilted his sketchbook away, a protective reflex, while Elena's hand moved to her vintage watch as if to check if the Lecturer's arrival had been scheduled. But it was Maya who reacted first, her eyes brightening with the recognition of a fellow traveler.
"The cost, Sir?" she asked.
Ezekiel pulled out a chair, acknowledging their silent permission to join. "In psychology, we call it 'dissociative flickering.' When you spend too much time perfecting a world that doesn't exist, you start to neglect the physics of the one that does. You, Marcus, might build a water-cathedral, but you'll forget how to lay a brick in the sun. And you, Elena, might live a century in a night, but you'll wake up and find your friends have aged a decade while you weren't looking."
He turned to Leo, who was watching him with a mixture of wariness and relief. "Leo here is right to be cautious. The brain is a master of gaslighting. It can make a dream feel like a home, and a home feel like a waiting room."
"But Sir," Maya countered, her chin resting on her palm, "isn't the University of Remembrance a waiting room? We're all here waiting to become the 'real' versions of ourselves. If I can be that person now—in a dream, or a 'what if'—isn't that more honest than waiting for a diploma?"
Ezekiel looked at her, really looked at her. He saw the "contraband map" Reyes had mentioned. She wasn't just talking about dreams; she was talking about escaping the linear progression of a life that felt too short for her spirit.
"It's honest," Ezekiel admitted, his voice dropping to a paternal register. "But remember the UR core principle: Everyone matters. In a lucid dream, you are the only one who is real. Everyone else is just a projection—a 'paper person' created by your subconscious. If you live there, you are essentially choosing a world where you are eternally alone. Here…" he gestured to the three people sitting with her, "…the variables are out of your control. That's what makes it real. The fact that Leo can surprise you. The fact that Marcus can draw something you didn't imagine."
Leo looked at Maya then, a silent "I told you so" hidden in his eyes, but it was wrapped in a layer of profound tenderness.
"Sir," Marcus asked, his charcoal pencil hovering over the paper, "do you think the multiverse Maya talks about is just a collective lucid dream? Like, we're all dreaming the same world into existence?"
Ezekiel smiled, a rare, genuine expression that reached his eyes. "That, Marcus, is the most beautiful architectural theory I've heard all year. If it is, then our job is to make sure we don't wake each other up too harshly."
He stood to leave, checking his own watch. The 10:30 bell was approaching. "Enjoy your 'what ifs,' you four. But don't forget to eat your lunch. Even in the multiverse, the body needs fuel."
As he walked away, he heard Maya whisper to Leo, "See? Even the Psych teacher thinks we're dreaming."
"No," Leo replied, and for the first time, Ezekiel heard the boy take the lead in the fantasy. "He thinks you're the dream, Maya. I'm just the one trying not to wake up."
Ezekiel stopped by the trash bin to discard his cup, his heart doing a strange, heavy skip. He realized that the "tragedy" Reyes had sensed wasn't just about a life ending; it was about the beauty of a dream that was too vivid to last. He opened his notebook and added a final observation to his map of Room 302:
Subject Maya: The Dreamer who refuses the shore. Subject Leo: The Witness who is learning to drown with her. It is the most dangerous kind of love—the kind that believes it can outrun the morning.
The bell for the 10:30 period rang, a jarring, metallic sound that acted as a "totem," snapping the four of them out of the shared trance. The canteen, which had felt like a secluded chamber of philosophy, suddenly flooded with the noise of a thousand shifting chairs and the frantic energy of students rushing to their next reality.
As Marcus and Elena stood up, exchanging a look that suggested their "time" and "space" were already beginning to align, Maya remained seated for a moment longer. She was staring at the table where the sunlight hit a spilled drop of water, turning it into a miniature prism.
"Everything okay?" Leo asked. He hadn't stood up yet either. He never did until she moved first.
"In a dream, you can tell you're dreaming by looking at your hands," Maya whispered, lifting her palms and turning them over. "The lines are always blurry. They shift. But here..." She traced the life line on her left hand with her right index finger. "Here, it's so sharp it almost hurts."
Leo reached out, his hand hovering over hers. He didn't touch her—not yet—but the heat radiating between their skin was a physics lesson all its own. "It's real, Maya. The sisig breath in this room, the annoying bell, the way my legs are cramped under this plastic table. It's all real."
"I know," she smiled, but it was a heavy smile. "That's the scary part. If it's real, it means it can break."
They finally stood up and walked toward the exit, passing the "Wall of Remembrance" that Professor Reyes so often frequented. Maya stopped in front of a glass trophy case, but she wasn't looking at the basketball championships or the debate medals. She was looking at her own reflection in the glass, layered over the silver cups.
"If I ever go missing, Leo," she said, her tone light but her eyes fixed on his reflection behind her, "don't look for me in the real world. Look for me in the 'what ifs.' Look for the girl who figured out how to fly in Room 302."
Leo's face darkened, a flash of that protective sentinel instinct crossing his features. "You won't go missing. I'm the keeper, remember? Prof Reyes said so. And keepers don't lose what they're watching."
"Avisala, Leo," she teased, using the greeting to deflect the weight of his promise.
"Shedah, Maya," he grumbled back, though a small smile betrayed him. "Stop talking like you're a ghost already."
From the second-floor balcony, Lecturer Ezekiel watched them walk across the open courtyard. He saw them move through the crowd like two particles that had already been entangled. He thought about his earlier note—about "drowning" with her. He realized he had been slightly wrong. Leo wasn't just learning to drown; he was building a vessel. He was trying to create a reality sturdy enough to hold a girl who was made of moonlight and curiosity.
Ezekiel turned away as they disappeared under the shade of the Narra trees. He had a class to teach on sensory perception, but as he walked, he found himself looking at his own hands, checking the lines, making sure the world was still as sharp and painful as it ought to be.
The fourth day was ending, and the "armor" they wore was becoming less like fiction and more like skin.
The humidity of the afternoon seemed to coagulate around the edges of the courtyard, the air growing thick and expectant. As Leo and Maya walked, they passed the University Gardens, a place where the discipline of the landscaping met the wildness of the local flora—a perfect metaphor for UR itself.
They stopped by a stone fountain that had long since stopped running, its basin now filled with fallen leaves and the occasional "wish" in the form of a tarnished five-peso coin. Maya leaned over the edge, her reflection broken by the debris.
"Leo," she said, her voice dropping the playful Enchanta lilt. "If the multiverse really exists, do you think there's a version of us where we aren't just students? Where maybe we're the ones writing the stories instead of living them?"
Leo leaned against the mossy stone, his denim jacket a sharp contrast to the soft greens of the garden. "I think if there's a version of me writing this, he's probably stuck on the same chapter I am. Trying to figure out how to keep the protagonist from floating away."
Maya laughed, but it was a brittle sound. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, smooth stone she had picked up from the library's path. She turned it over in her hand, much like she had studied the lines of her palm. "If we're in a lucid dream right now, and I decide to wake up... would you hate me? For leaving you in the 'real' world?"
The question was a cold splash of water. Leo stood up straight, his shadow stretching over her. The "witnesses"—Reyes, Reinn, Ezekiel—had all seen the spark, but they hadn't felt the heat. Only Leo felt the heat, and it was starting to burn.
"You're not waking up, Maya. Because this isn't a dream. It's a four-year obligation, remember? It's Kinematics, and Bioluminescence, and Psych 101." He reached out, and this time, he didn't let his hand hover. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her temple. "You're here. I can feel the temperature of your skin. That's the only physics that matters to me."
Maya leaned into his touch for a heartbeat, closing her eyes. In that silence, the University of Remembrance seemed to exhale. The distant sound of a guitar from the Narra trees, the smell of rain-dampened earth, and the steady rhythm of Leo's breathing created a sanctuary that no "what if" could ever replicate.
"Okay," she whispered, opening her eyes. "Then for now, I'm here."
As they headed back toward Room 302 for their afternoon session, the first heavy drops of a tropical rain began to fall, tapping against the corrugated iron roofs like a thousand tiny totems. It was a reminder from the earth that reality was insistent, heavy, and beautiful in its transience.
Lecturer Ezekiel, watching from his office window, saw the two of them run for cover, laughing as the downpour intensified. He picked up his pen and drew a final line through his notes. He realized that the greatest "magic" wasn't the ability to fly or to live in a dream; it was the courage to stay awake in a world that you knew would eventually break your heart.