The Inn's Eternal Napper
A new guest had taken up residence in the backyard annex—one who never seemed to wake up.
He'd arrived unannounced. No check-in, no door opening. He'd simply drifted in like morning mist, chosen a sunlit corner room, laid out his tatami mat, tucked himself under a quilt, and promptly fallen into a slumber that showed no signs of ending.
Sometimes when I brought him tea, he'd roll over and murmur nonsense into his pillow:
"...The pillows are flying away..."171Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDvg66ZXq9w
"Stop eating the blanket..."171Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBahA2edusW
"I'm not a mosquito... definitely not..."
His dream monologues played out like the strangest radio drama.
At first I'd been concerned—was he cursed? Sealed? But the elder spirits just chuckled. "That's Mianmian," an ancient smoke-cat explained, tail flicking. "A dreamwalker who took a wrong turn into our world. The moment he stepped through, sleep claimed him—the deeper he dreams, the sweeter the dreams he gives nearby children."
So I stopped worrying. Instead, I began daily rituals: smoothing his sheets, freshening his tea, perching by his door to eavesdrop on those absurd dream-soliloquies. Today's episode featured:
"...A cat riding a lotus-leaf skateboard, delivering milk to the stars..."
I muffled a laugh. "Do stars drink milk? Will they grow taller?"
Beneath the quilt, Mianmian curled tighter, as if nodding in agreement.
And it struck me—though we'd never exchanged a single waking word, this odd companionship felt unexpectedly precious.
As dusk painted the inn's roof tangerine, wind chimes sang. A soft glow emanated from Mianmian's room. Somewhere in those endless dreams, he was probably orchestrating another wonderful absurdity.
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and then Add to home screen.