Chrononova and the Dream Thieves
Long before the clocks were wound, dreams flowed freely across the cosmos. Mortals wandered through starlit fields, met lost friends in moonlit halls, and woke with fragments of wonder stitched into their hearts. But the Council of Productivity grew restless. They saw dreams as wasted hours, unmeasured, unprofitable.
“We will abolish them,” they decreed. “No more wandering minds. Sleep shall be empty, efficient, and bare.”
The universe trembled. Without dreams, imagination would wither, songs would fade, and even the stars would lose their stories.
Then Chrononova padded forth, his paws silent on the Astral Loom. His left eye ticked with ancient time, his right shimmered with lunar haze. He entered the Dreamstream, where visions flowed like rivers of light, and stood guard at its gates.
The Council sent their agents—grey figures with ledgers and chains—to dam the Dreamstream. But the Time Cat’s whiskers sparked with starlight. He lashed his tail, and the chains dissolved into fireflies. He struck the ledgers with his claw, and they unraveled into lullabies.
“Dreams are not waste,” he declared. “They are the pulse of the cosmos. Without them, time itself collapses.”
The Council faltered, their numbers undone by the rhythm of imagination. And so, dreams remained. Each night, when mortals close their eyes, Chrononova prowls the borders—keeping nightmares at bay, ensuring visions flow, and protecting the fragile kingdom of sleep.
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