Dream Interpreter

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The Certain Room

I read dreams in a town that laughs at me. Then the town starts believing every word, and I stop admitting the one thing that kept me honest: sometimes I don't know.

I interpret dreams for a living.

People here mock the work.

So I stay careful.

I follow up.

When a dream means nothing, I say so.

B comes skeptical, a local radio host with the same drowning dream every night.

I read it as buried guilt over a brother he never pulled from the water.

He breaks down.

It is true.

B puts me on his show to prove I am a fraud, and instead I sound like an oracle.

Clients flood in.

For the first time I am believed, and I like it more than I should.

I stop saying 'I don't know.'

I shape each reading to land clean, to keep them coming back, to keep the feeling.

C arrives fragile and needy, dreaming of a locked room and a knife.

The honest read is simple: this is not symbolism, see a doctor.

But that reading makes me ordinary.

So I give C a certain, beautiful meaning instead.

C acts on it.

Someone gets hurt, and the locked room was real.

The town turns.

B replays my own voice back at me on air.

One sentence ends it: I could say I guessed.

I don't.

I defend the reading, because admitting the doubt means admitting the gift was never what they bought.

I keep the office open and the sign lit.

I still read dreams.

Now the chair across from me stays empty, and I am the only one left who is certain.