About the Author
I'm a sophomore English major. This book was an assignment from my creative writing professor—we had to write a fictional story of substantial length.
I thought for a long time before starting. When I was a kid, my favorite show was Martin Morning. I’d wait by the TV every day to see who Martin would become—a firefighter, a detective, even an alien... I always fantasized about being able to do that too. So when I got this assignment, my first thought was: write a story about “transformation.”
But once I started writing, I realized I don’t have Martin’s vivid imagination. My protagonist, Nicki, only gets one kind of “transformation”—experiencing various extreme versions of life in her dreams. Extreme beauty, extreme wealth, extreme neediness... As I kept writing, the story fell into a pattern: intense longing, then dream fulfillment, followed by the discovery of the cost. Even rereading it myself, I can sense a somewhat preachy tone.
It wasn’t until near the end that I finally had Nicki stumble upon the concept of “balance”—though I handled it clumsily. To be honest, I’m not entirely convinced by those “life insights” myself.
So if you’re reading this book, please don’t take it too seriously. This is just the work of a sophomore trying to complete an assignment, mixed with some childhood fantasy and clear marks of a student writer. If it brings you a bit of enjoyment while reading, or reminds you of your own childhood dreams of being like Martin, that’s more than enough for me.
As for those seemingly profound “life philosophies”? Just smile and let them pass. I’m still figuring things out myself.
1: Magic stone
Nicki's life was a carefully ordered checklist. Each day ran precisely along the same tracks: punctual classes, color-coded notes, fixed shifts at the library part-time job. Her world was stable, predictable, like a well-thumbed book with worn corners. Yet, beneath this meticulous order, there always lurked an ineffable sense of detachment. She looked at the future as if through frosted glass, knowing there were shapes and colors behind it, but they remained perpetually blurred and out of focus.
This vague curiosity was finally ignited by her good friend Andi. A few weeks ago, Andi had gone to the Gypsy fortune-teller's tent at the edge of the market with a clear goal in mind—she wanted to ask about love. She came out holding a photocopy of a tarot card, her face lit with excitement. "It was so accurate," Andi later told Nicki. "She said I would meet someone creative, fluid like water." A month later, Andi did indeed meet that sculpture student at the art workshop. When she talked about this connection, there was a certain, assured light in her eyes, as if a prophecy had been tenderly fulfilled.
This incident was like a pebble dropped into the still pond of Nicki's heart. She didn't entirely believe in such mystical things, but the sense of direction Andi seemed to have—of being "seen" and "confirmed"—made the frosted glass deep within Nicki suddenly feel unbearable. If others could walk in with clear questions—about career, love, relocation—and receive some form of revelation, what about her? She only felt a broad, amorphous curiosity about "the future" itself. Could that even be addressed?
So, on a lazy Saturday afternoon that felt like a mirror of Andi's story, Nicki found the deep blue tent with golden mystical symbols embroidered on it, at the market's fringe. She took a deep breath, her fingertips cool as she lifted the door flap.
The light inside was dim, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood. A Gypsy woman sat behind a small table covered with a heavy woven rug, not looking up, merely gesturing with her hand for Nicki to sit on the cushion opposite. The table was scattered with tarot cards, a few smooth stones, and a dark velvet pouch.
"What do you wish to ask?" The woman's voice was somewhat hoarse, her gaze settling calmly on Nicki's face.
Nicki suddenly choked up. Ask what? Andi could clearly say, "I want to ask about my love life." But when it was her turn, those specific questions that others seemed to utter so easily—career, love, relocation—failed to coalesce into any tangible form. She opened her mouth, her voice dry. "I... I want to know... my future..." As the words fell, even she felt the question was laughably broad, like a bewildered child asking for an overly vast gift.
The Gypsy woman's gaze didn't waver, but something deep in her eyes seemed to shift subtly. She had seen many people—young women with bright eyes asking about marriage prospects, students with furrowed brows asking about their paths, anxious merchants asking about gains and losses. When they walked in, they carried a clear shape of "desire," like arrows of different materials with a clear target. But this girl was different. She sat there, posture proper, yet her eyes were like a spreading fog, without direction.
The woman let out a nearly imperceptible, soft sigh. This wasn't her first client today, but she was the only one who couldn't even find her own question.
"Child," she began slowly, her voice lowering, carrying a peculiar patience. "People who come to me usually carry a specific question in their hearts, like holding a stone that needs illumination. They ask 'will it,' 'can I,' 'when is.' But you," her eyes swept over Nicki's clasped, somewhat vacant hands, "you have brought only a mist of 'maybe.' You do not want an answer, because in your heart, you do not yet have a truly formed question."
Nicki felt a flush of embarrassment at being seen through so completely, and a greater sense of loss. Had she come to the wrong place? Just as she was about to apologize and leave, the Gypsy woman bent down and drew something from beneath the table, placing it gently on the rug.
It was a stone, about the size of a fist, perfectly smooth and dark all over, like an obsidian pebble polished by river water for millennia, yet its surface seemed to swirl with a very subtle, internal luminescence.
"The tarot can interpret clear desires, can give directions to clear sign posts," the woman said, pushing the stone toward Nicki. "But for a traveler still lost in the mist, who doesn't even know which port they wish to reach, it might just be another complicated map. This... might be more suitable for you as you are now."
Nicki took the stone in confusion. It felt cool and heavy in her hand.
"Tonight, before you sleep, hold it. Do not think of any specific question. Do not ask 'whether' or 'when.'" The woman's voice grew softer, almost a whisper. "Just hold it, and then, try to feel—not with your mind, but let your heart gently touch the emotion itself that is called 'anticipation.' Imagine falling asleep holding the purest form of expectation, not for a specific person or thing, but for a... feeling, a color, a temperature you wish your life as a whole to possess. Let that unnamed longing deep within you be your last conscious thought as you drift off."
She paused, watching Nicki's bewildered eyes.
"It will not give you a clear prophecy. But it might help you do one thing: in your dreams, let you truly 'experience' the life you vaguely yearn for. When you wake tomorrow, you may not get answers about careers or partners, but you might feel, for the first time, clearly—ah, so this is what the morning I truly long for deep down feels like."
Carrying this weighty, enigmatic stone and these half-understood words, Nicki left the tent. The outside sunlight was somewhat glaring. She looked down at the dark stone that seemed to hold a galaxy within her hand. The confusion in her heart had not dissipated, but a strange, faint tremor traveled from the cool stone up to her fingertips. Tonight, she would attempt not to ask a specific question, but to touch the source of the question itself.
2: Relationship
With the smooth black stone and the Gypsy woman's ambiguous instructions, Nicki returned to her quiet dorm room. As night fell and the usual noises settled, the stone lay beside her pillow, glowing faintly under the lamplight. She thought of Andi—how Andi's eyes sparkled when she talked about the sculpture student. That kind of sweet, assured sharing had once made Nicki feel a pang of loneliness deep down.
"Perhaps... I should ask about love too?" The thought formed clearly for the first time, tinged with shyness and curiosity. So, before sleep, she followed the instructions, but instead of reaching for that vague "overall life expectation," she deliberately channeled all her energy toward a specific, romantic direction. She imagined an ideal relationship: being understood, being respected, sharing easy laughter. Holding this clear anticipation for a beautiful romance, she fell asleep.
The dream arrived naturally and vividly. She was waiting in line outside a trendy, hard-to-book restaurant, holding a "single seat" number. The restaurant was full, and a waiter with an apologetic smile led her to a small table where someone was already sitting. A figure. In the dream, his face was somewhat blurry, but the impression was clean and pleasant. Because seating was tight, they were forced to share a table. A simple apology and an awkward smile were the opening. The second time, the third time... As if by some mischievous twist of fate, they always seemed to crave the same popular little spots at the same time, and always ended up face-to-face due to a lack of single seats. From awkward silence, to commenting on a dish, a natural and comfortable familiarity quietly grew over these shared meals.
In the snippets of interaction within the dream, Nicki "felt" his many good qualities: he listened with focused eyes, never interrupting; his humor was spot-on, never making her or anyone else uncomfortable; he spoke about his work (which seemed creative in the dream) with passion and clear reasoning, appearing responsible and reliable. Everything matched, even surpassed, the vague outline of her ideal type she had sketched before sleep. Naturally, they got together. The happiness in the dream felt real, shimmering with the light of a first love.
However, the dream subtly shifted its hue. After being together, Nicki found herself entering a new "checklist" mode. His birthday required carefully planned gifts and surprises; if he was quiet one day, she felt uneasy, wondering if something was wrong; choosing a movie meant considering his taste first; planning a weekend meant coordinating both their schedules. Her emotions began to be tugged by another person's weather. A faint weariness spread in her heart like a water stain. She looked at the still-gentle, still-ideal "Someone" in the dream. He had done nothing wrong. Precisely because of that, the budding sense of weariness made her feel even more guilty and confused. She couldn't find any proper, expressible reason to say "it's over." In the dream, she could only maintain a smile, while inside she felt a smothering sense of being gently tethered.
Just as this smothering feeling peaked, she woke up.
The morning light in the dorm was a cool gray-white. Nicki's eyes snapped open, her heart racing—she was alone in her own bed, her schedule contained only her own classes and library shifts. No birthdays to remember, no moods to decipher.
A tremendous, almost shuddering sense of relief washed over her. Not disappointment, but gladness. She breathed freely, savoring this complete, solitary peace. After the sweet filter of the "perfect relationship" in the dream faded, what remained was a burden heavier than loneliness. At this moment, being single was no longer a blank space needing to be filled, but a space where she could breathe freely and belong entirely to herself.
Later that day, in the school cafeteria, Andi, glowing as usual, began sharing her relationship updates: "He stayed up late working on his model again last night, I need to think about how to help him replenish... We might go to that new exhibition this weekend, but the time isn't set yet, depends on his advisor..."
Before, listening to this, Nicki's heart would have twinged with a subtle anxiety. But today, she simply listened with a smile. Strangely, that anxiety was gone. She no longer frantically examined her own blank romantic landscape in the reflection of Andi's happiness.
She ate her food calmly, her mind clearly focused on finishing the outline of her essay at the library that afternoon, and on visiting that independent bookstore she'd always wanted to see, completely unencumbered, over the weekend. She put her energy into herself. Her energy, no longer searching outward or fretting, settled firmly back onto her own studies, her interests, and her peaceful life at this moment. This is good, she thought clearly. This is what I need right now.
### 3: Intelligence
That brief dream had given Nicki much to contemplate. The black stone, once seen as a mysterious key, now seemed more like a strange lens that could reflect her inner self. She was almost eager to hold it again. With finals approaching, essays and review materials piled high on her desk, a familiar anxiety of being chased by deadlines crept over her once more. Staring at the complex formulas and lengthy literature, a thought arose naturally: If only I were very, very smart. Like those legendary top students, with photographic memory and the ability to grasp concepts instantly, solving all difficult problems with ease, effortlessly scoring A+'s. To become a truly wise person—perhaps all academic pressure would simply vanish.
Holding this clear desire for "exceptional intelligence," she clutched the black stone and drifted off to sleep. She dreamed she was standing at the podium of a spacious, bright lecture hall, wearing a well-tailored blazer, a laser pointer in her hand. Young faces filled the seats below, listening intently. Complex molecular biology pathway diagrams covered the board behind her. She explained fluently, pointing out key nodes on the charts, citing references with clarity and confidence when answering student questions. She was Professor Nicki, a young scholar rising in her field, having already published several influential papers at a young age. In the dream, she could vividly feel the certainty that comes from being filled with knowledge and insight, and the deep satisfaction of guiding others, of being addressed as "Professor." The aura of wisdom made her appear composed and powerful.
Yet, the scene shifted. She was back in her private office. The dream's satisfaction faded rapidly, replaced by a cold sense of reality. The large desk was buried under piles of documents: draft theses from graduate students awaiting review, dozens of academic emails needing replies, complex grant application reports, progress checklists for collaborative projects, and several manuscript review invitations from academic journals. And that was just the daily administrative and scholarly communication part.
The heavier pressure came from deeper within her awareness: she was leading a provincial-level key project and participating in a major national research initiative. In the dream, she could almost see the vast, intricate blueprints of these research designs, each link with minimal tolerance for error, involving enormous funding, manpower, and the scrutinizing eyes of her peers. She was no longer a student responsible only for her own grades. Every decision she made, every paper she published, even every choice of experimental direction could impact the trajectory of her entire team, or even a tiny advance in the field. The saying, "With great power comes great responsibility," was no longer an adage in the dream, but a concrete, palpable weight on her shoulders. A mix of fear, anxiety, and immense responsibility made her heart palpitate with a sense of suffocation—she was terrified that a single oversight on her part could render everyone's efforts futile, terrified that her reputation might outstrip her actual capabilities.
Just as this crushing sense of responsibility became overwhelmingly clear, she jolted awake.
The room was dark, only the faint glow from her bedside digital clock. She breathed rapidly, her palms slightly damp. The dreamscape faded quickly, but the immense pressure and fear she felt as the "genius professor" left a clear aftertaste. She lay still for a long moment before slowly letting out a breath.
A profound sense of unreality enveloped her. In the dream, she was the brilliant young professor, a valued national research talent, possessing the "intelligence" she currently coveted. Yet, the glamorous title and extraordinary intellect did not bring the ease and freedom she had imagined. Instead, they brought pressures ten times heavier than those she faced now as the "not-so-smart" self, merely worrying about final exams. Her current worries were about a paper's grade; her dream worries were about the efficacy of millions in funding and the future of a team. The textures of anxiety were different, but the mental load they imposed was equally real, even more terrifying in the latter case.
She got up and turned on the TV. A late-night channel was airing an interview with a widely recognized, highly successful entrepreneur who was eloquently discussing his business philosophy and glorious achievements. Before, Nicki might have watched with simple envy, even a twinge of jealousy, marveling at others' talent, luck, or accomplishments. But now, looking at the confident face on the screen, her mind conjured the image of her dream-self sitting in the office buried under files, feeling that heavy, isolated weight of having to move forward.
She no longer saw only the dazzling halo of success. She began, almost unconsciously, to wonder: How many risky decisions did this person have to make along the way? How many crises that could have meant total failure did they face? How much expectation do they carry from employees, shareholders, even the industry? Success was never an endpoint, but a new starting point laden with greater responsibility and higher expectations.
Turning off the TV, the room settled back into quiet. Nicki did not look again at the homework that had troubled her. The dream's revelation had stripped away a layer of fantasy she hadn't been aware of—the fantasy of "effortless success." The question she asked herself quietly shifted from "Can I become that smart and successful?" to something more grounded, yet more proactive: "Is that kind of pressure and responsibility something I am willing and able to bear? If not, then in my current position, what efforts can I, and should I, actually make?"
4: Beauty
The terrifying dream about "intelligence" had left Nicki shaken. She had tucked the black stone deep into a drawer, her desire for exploration temporarily extinguished. Life seemed to return to its original track, routine and uneventful.
Yet, a new kind of anxiety quietly took root. Recently, while browsing online, various social media platforms and video sites constantly bombarded her with dazzling content: flawless skin, exquisitely perfect features, curvaceous figures, fashionable and carefree lifestyles... The images on screen were glamorous, as if constituting a parallel, more beautiful world. She began unconsciously checking the mirror more often, scrutinizing herself: facial contours that weren't quite smooth enough, several noticeable patches of uneven skin tone, and what she privately defined as the "lackluster," straight-up-and-down H-shaped figure. A new anxiety about appearance wound its way around her like a vine. What would it feel like to experience the life of someone "beautiful"?
Once this thought emerged, it became hard to suppress. A few nights later, she took the silent black stone out of the drawer again. It still felt cool to the touch. This time, her wish was clear and direct: she wanted to know how life would be different if she possessed striking beauty.
Falling asleep was unusually smooth. As the dream unfolded, she was standing in front of a bright full-length mirror. The reflection made her catch her breath. It was her, yet not her everyday self. Her features seemed finely optimized—deep-set eyes, thick, curled lashes, smooth, even skin with a healthy glow. Her figure also possessed the ideal curves, shapely and proportionate. A mix of astonishment and immense joy washed over her. She turned in front of the mirror, then casually pulled a plain shirt and jeans from the wardrobe. They looked surprisingly good on her, simple yet radiant.
The dream-day began. When buying breakfast, the server was exceptionally patient, even smilingly giving her an extra packet of sauce. Walking into the classroom, she could feel eyes following her. During group discussions, her contributions seemed to receive more attentive listening; when conversing, she could clearly catch the appreciative, even awestruck, look in others' eyes. A course project she led also received praise beyond expectations. The "halo effect" of her appearance was amplified so concretely in the dream, acting like a lubricant that made her interactions with others, her process of presenting herself, exceptionally smooth. Her steps were light, a smile played unconsciously on her lips. An unprecedented, appearance-based confidence filled her.
But dreams, it seemed, always had their own complete logic. After the smooth sailing, undercurrents began to stir. Soon, she began to "hear" whispers about herself. Vague rumors circulated, hinting at a complicated and messy love life. Even less friendly comments drifted to her ears: "Her? Isn't it just because of that face?" "That professor thinks so highly of her project... who knows what goes on in private." "What real skill does she have besides being pretty?" The criticisms were like tiny needles, trying to puncture her balloon of confidence.
Yet, to her own surprise, the dream-her who heard these things felt little internal turmoil, not even much anger. The confidence built on appearance, now expanding, instead transformed into a more steely motivation. She thought with a kind of certainty: The more they say such things, the more I must prove that what I get, I deserve, not just because of this face. Her outward advantage became her armor, not her weakness; the judgments of others became the whip driving her to work harder, to excel more. She would use even more dazzling achievements to silence those voices.
The dream ended abruptly there.
Nicki woke up. Morning light filtered through the gaps in the curtains. She didn't get up immediately, savoring the feeling from the dream. That state of being full of confidence, head held high, still left a lingering warmth. She walked to the mirror and looked at the familiar, ordinary self reflected there—face not flawlessly perfect as in the dream, figure still its original shape.
But strangely, she didn't feel a sense of loss. On the contrary, something more solid settled in her heart. The experience of "confidence because of beauty" in the dream was certainly intoxicating, but what truly made her feel a surge of power at the dream's end was not the appearance itself, but that determined mindset of "not caring about the criticism and being resolved to prove oneself."
She realized that what was truly precious, what truly brought a sense of strength, was perhaps not the fleeting beauty that easily attracted gossip. It was that inner drive, the ability to genuinely recognize and believe in oneself anytime, anywhere—regardless of appearance, regardless of circumstance. Beauty might open some doors, attract some glances, but what allows you to walk through those doors steadily and hold your head high is never just a pretty face.
She slowly smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This time, the smile held no anxiety, no comparison, only a clear sense of calm and confidence born from this awakening. The black stone had let her taste "beauty," but the gift it ultimately left her was a profound insight into the true source of "confidence."
5: Rich
Financial pressure felt concrete to Nicki for the first time. The lease renewal notice for her student apartment sat in her inbox, the number glaring. Meanwhile, the occasional displays of refined consumption by peers on social media acted like mirrors, reflecting her own careful budgeting of living expenses and the weeks she spent comparing prices for a single desired top. A mix of pressure and envy crystallized into a clear longing in the quiet of night: "If only I were rich... How easy life would be if I could pay for all this without a second thought."
The wish was so direct, almost tangible. She reached for the black stone in the drawer once more.
The dream felt like a seamless transition. She awoke in a penthouse apartment overlooking the city skyline. She was Nicki, a young woman who had just inherited a substantial trust fund. All her real-world financial anxieties evaporated like morning dew in the dream. She no longer needed to browse countless webpages, compare prices, and wait for sales for a designer top; she simply walked into the boutique where the staff politely knew her name, pointed, and took anything that caught her eye. This power of "no hesitation" brought a dizzying thrill at first.
The surface of her life took on a dazzling sheen. Personal shoppers, attentive service, a new social circle discussing luxury consumption and capital ventures. The instant gratification of material desires felt like pressing a never-fading button of pleasure.
Soon, however, the texture of that sheen became apparent. She noticed conversations inevitably drifting towards asset figures and investments. When she tried to discuss an obscure novel or a social issue, the other person's gaze would often flicker to the value on her wristwatch before offering a polite but hollow smile. Appreciation of art was reduced to auction estimates, the pursuit of knowledge simplified to name-dropping prestigious institutions. The profound joy she once cherished—that feeling of fulfillment after saving up to finally buy something she loved—was replaced by an empty cycle of "purchase-unwrap-brief excitement-indifference-next purchase." The exorbitantly priced coat in her dream wardrobe provided less warmth than the memory of that ordinary sweater she had deliberated over, finally bought with her own savings, and worn for years.
She gradually realized that in the eyes of others, and even in her own blurring perception, the identity of "Nicki" was fading, replaced by a symbol called "Wealth." She was defined by this symbol, and imprisoned by it.
The dream dissipated as quietly as it had arrived. Perhaps it was after another lavish yet tasteless dinner, alone before the cold lights of the spacious apartment, that the profound, money-proof void within prompted her to wake naturally.
The dawn light was faint, the room still her modest student dorm. On the desk, the lease notice and a few unpaid bills remained. Nicki looked at them, but the anticipated anxiety did not rise. The taste of being wrapped in wealth yet utterly isolated in the dream was too real, like an overly potent contrast agent.
Two things became clear to her: First, wealth could indeed remove barriers to survival, keeping hunger, cold, and embarrassment at bay, but it did not equate to "happiness" or "fulfillment." Second, true "affluence" might have little to do with account balances. It was about an internal certainty of one's own worth, needing no external labels for proof; about making wise choices within limited resources, using money for things that truly nourish life, not aimless extravagance; and, crucially, about the genuine connection between people, that willingness to remain present once all material filters are stripped away.
She didn't open those glossy shopping apps. Instead, she turned off the screen and mentally calculated: rent, food, necessary school expenses... Then, she remembered that top she'd had in her favorites folder for so long. This time, she didn't immediately search for a "cheaper alternative" out of anxiety or comparison, nor did she dismiss it with disdain born of the dream's illusory luxury. She reopened the familiar shopping app, found the item, and added it to her cart. She would compare prices from different sellers, and might even wait a week or two to see if a better promotion appeared. But now, this process of "comparing three shops" was no longer accompanied by the scarcity feeling of "I can't afford this," nor the impulse of "I must have it." It became a composed plan, a clear management of her genuine preferences and limited means.
When she turned off her phone screen, deciding to finalize the purchase later, a strange peace settled over her. It was a grounded sense of control, born from a clear understanding of her own situation and a redefined notion of what it truly means to "possess." This feeling was far heavier, far more solid, than the floating "assurance" that came from spending illusory wealth in the dream.
For the last time, the black stone had reflected not a shortcut to billions, but a map for cultivating a truly rich heart within the landscape of ordinary reality.
6: Perfect Family
The lingering aftereffects of the wealth dream left Nicki with a newfound appreciation for genuine, un-priced human connection. Yet, during the day, a different kind of tension had taken root. She had argued with her parents over next month's allowance. They thought her spending was excessive; she felt misunderstood and defensive about her already frugal habits. The call had ended in a heavy silence. That feeling of being unfairly judged, combined with the looming uncertainty of graduation, sharpened her yearning for "home" to a fine point. If only there were a family that was always warm, always understanding, always supportive… a perfect haven.
The desire was so acute, she almost grasped the black stone with a sense of defiance, a search for an ideal answer.
The dream unfolded as wished. She awoke in a sun-drenched room smelling of toasted bread, a garden of roses visible outside the window. She was the center of this flawless family. Her parents were elegant and wise, never argued, and met her only with smiles and support. Any dream she mentioned, even a whim, was met with: "Of course, darling, we believe in you." No budget constraints, no practical considerations, and certainly no arguments about living expenses. She was steeped in a rich, unadulterated happiness, nearly drowning in it at first.
The shift came one afternoon. She earnestly told her dream-parents she might take a gap year after graduation to travel and write. They responded with their perfect smiles: "A wonderful idea. Follow your inspiration." Their tone was gentle, unreserved. But Nicki's heart sank. She heard the hollowness beneath that perfect support—no specific questions about her safety, no discussion of her career path, not even the clumsy, real worry of a parent who cares too much. This support felt like observation through sterile glass: flawless, but temperature-less. She suddenly missed her real mother's tangled concern over the phone that very day, scolding her for buying too many books while simultaneously asking if she had enough money.
A deeper unease followed. In this house, everything was meticulously arranged, every emotion gently smoothed away. She gradually realized she was like a carefully displayed treasure here, needing to maintain the perfect image of the "beloved daughter." She couldn't have sustained low moods, couldn't make "wrong" choices, couldn't even hold strong opinions, as it might disrupt the harmonious perfection. Once, attempting to voice a differing view on something, she caught her parents' eternally patient, waiting-for-her-to-"come-around" gaze and lost all desire to argue. Perfect love had become the softest constraint, stripping her of the space to be authentic, even to have a self.
Struggling awake from that suffocating "perfection," dawn was just breaking outside. Her chest still held the dream's residue of constraint, but the influx of real air brought a strange clarity. She understood now. That dream haven was suffocating precisely because it eliminated all real friction. True security, perhaps, came from knowing that even with arguments, disagreements, and mutual imperfection, the bond remained strong and could grow tougher through collision.
Just then, her phone screen lit up. Her mother was calling. Nicki took a deep breath and answered.
"Nicki" her mother's voice, less fiery than the day before, was husky from lack of sleep. "Last night… you didn't sleep well, did you? Mom wasn't blaming you for spending money. I was afraid you were pinching yourself out there and wouldn't say anything."
This time, Nicki didn't respond with her usual silence or defense. Holding the phone, she spoke softly but clearly. "Mom, I hear that you're worried about me. But I was really hurt yesterday. I feel like I'm already being careful, and being criticized made me feel like you don't trust me."
Silence on the line for a few seconds. Then her mother's voice returned, slightly choked. "That was my fault. I spoke too harshly. Your dad talked to me about it too… It's not that we don't trust you. It's just… we still think of you as our kid, afraid you can't manage. Talk to us. What are your real plans? If money's tight, we'll figure something out…"
That morning, they talked more deeply than they had in half a year. For the first time, Nicki didn't just share the good news, confessing her job-hunting stress and future confusion. Her mother, too, rare in her response, set aside the "parent" stance, speaking of their anxiety about her being far away and their own financial pressures. There was no perfect solution. There were even awkward pauses and small disagreements that flared up again within the conversation. But the words were like coarse sandpaper, gradually wearing down the barrier, revealing the real grain beneath.
By the time she hung up, morning light was flooding her desk. Nicki watched the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam, and the post-dream clarity in her heart settled into something solid. The black stone had shown her the ultimate form of a "perfect family"—a utopia with no arguments, only support. But it was precisely that utopia that made her utterly certain: she didn't need a smooth, flawless container. What she needed was a real, living relationship like the one she just had—one that allowed her to say "I'm hurt" and could also hold her mother's tears. Perfection implied a static endpoint. An imperfect bond held the infinite possibility of growing, together.
7: Being Needed
Nicki's recent setbacks were tangible. In a group project, the data organization task she was responsible for was completed more quickly by another student using specialized software. When she missed a friend's weekend birthday party, scrolling through the lively photos and chat logs afterward, no one seemed to have specifically asked about her absence. A fine, pervasive feeling of being "unneeded" wrapped around her. She felt like a replaceable component in the social machinery, her presence or absence failing to create any necessary ripple. This awareness bred a profound anxiety. She began to crave a sense of absolute significance: to become the absolute core and pillar of a place, a group of people, to be deeply depended upon, intensely needed, where her absence would mean the system's failure.
Holding this desire, tinged with a defiant need to prove her own worth, she grasped the black stone.
The dream transported her to a starkly different setting. She was the resource coordinator for a remote, struggling small community. Supplies were limited, but the people were united by their trust in her. From fairly distributing the daily water and food rations, to mediating a dispute between two families over a field boundary, to deciding how to use the community's meager savings to purchase the most urgently needed medicine—every decision touched upon survival and harmony. People respected her because they believed she was absolutely fair; they depended on her because they knew her judgment always prioritized the collective good. She was the axis of this small world, the indispensable balancing point. Initially, Nicki was filled with this unprecedented sense of "weight." Her fairness and wisdom were fully trusted; her very existence maintained the community's functioning and unity. This feeling of being intensely needed and respected washed over her like a warm tide, making her feel that her life was substantial and profoundly meaningful.
However, the true nature of the pressure soon revealed itself.
"Being needed" became an unceasing expectation. She had no right to be weary, as weariness might cloud her judgment. She could not show personal preference, because the slightest hint of bias could damage the hard-earned credibility of her "absolute fairness." She could not even have private emotions, because she was the trusted "pillar" for everyone, required to be forever stable, rational, and reliable. Gradually, she was no longer "Nicki," but transformed into a symbol called the "Fair Coordinator," a moral benchmark that had to be flawless.
She began to crave fiercely the freedom of being "dispensable" in the real world. She missed being able to admit she too had selfish desires, missed making a choice based on her own preference rather than absolute correctness in an inconsequential matter, missed having emotions that belonged entirely to herself, without constantly considering the collective gaze. There, her "existence" was vivid and complex. Here, in the dream, her "existence" had to be purified and compressed into a perfect, thin symbol of "fairness."
One evening, after distributing the last batch of winter supplies, watching people disperse with relieved smiles, she sat alone by the warehouse door. What she felt was not satisfaction, but a loneliness that seeped into her bones. A cold realization struck her: this extreme state of being "needed" and "respected" had essentially built a transparent wall of isolation. In the name of "trust" and "fairness," it had enshrined her on a high altar, severing the equal, relaxed, even slightly flawed emotional connections she, as an ordinary person, longed for. Between her and the people, there was only transactional delivery and admiration, no longer the confiding and camaraderie between friends. Genuine, warm human connection had quietly withered under the weight of this lofty trust and heavy responsibility.
Waking from this profoundly lonely "peak" dream, the dorm room was silent, dawn light painting parallel stripes on the floor through the blinds. Nicki didn't get up immediately, just stared at the ceiling. The weight of being depended upon by thousands in the dream was gone, but the chill of that lonely height remained on her skin like dew, distinctly perceptible.
Strangely, the anticipated sense of loss from "returning to a state where no one needs me" did not materialize. In its place was a feeling of... lightness. After the heavy, suffocating "being needed" faded, what remained was herself. Just herself.
So, "not being needed" could also be a space of wholeness. In this space, she didn't have to be a symbol of perfection, an embodiment of justice, anyone's pillar. She could be Nicki, who didn't want to do anything immediately upon waking. She could be Nicki, who privately favored a certain piece of clothing. She could even be Nicki, who was powerless in some matters, yet didn't have to feel guilty about it.
Healthy "being needed," perhaps, was like breathing—there must be both inhalation and exhalation. It was mutual, fluid, allowing for one's own rhythm. And true worth, it turned out, resided quietly in these moments of "not being needed," in the state of simply "being." It didn't depend on external demands or validation. It was in this breath she deeply drew in and released, in the rhythm of her heartbeat, in her calm gaze fixed on the ceiling right now.
The black stone by her pillow glowed softly in the morning light, no longer mysterious, more like a familiar old friend who had accompanied her through journey after journey within. It had given her nothing, yet allowed her to see everything.
8: Eternity
While sorting through old belongings, Nicki pulled a childhood edition of Journey to the West from the bottom of a box. On the yellowed pages, demons and monsters drooled over the monk Tang Seng, all for a taste of his flesh that promised immortality. As a child, she found the monsters silly. Now, she stared at the words “长生不老” (cháng shēng bù lǎo - immortality), lost in thought. Why had people throughout history, even to the point of madness, sought eternal life? What did immortality truly feel like? If time were not an hourglass but a boundless ocean, what would a life become?
This question, born of pure, almost naive curiosity, led her to grip the black stone as night fell.
The dream did not begin in a celestial or fantastical realm. Instead, it started with a startling sense of “reality.” She simply… stopped aging. Time seemed to stand still for her, while the world around her hurtled forward at an unprecedented pace.
The first century was novel and exhilarating. She witnessed the explosive growth of human ingenuity: steam engines roaring to reshape the world, electric lights banishing millennia of darkness, radio waves carrying voices across continents, and later, immense rockets breaking Earth's grip to imprint human footprints on the moon. She learned voraciously, transitioning from an expert in one field to a pioneer in another, her mind accumulating knowledge into a palace no one else could rival. She experienced countless loves—sipping wine under the moon with poets, venturing into rainforests with explorers, working through the night in labs with scientists. Each time, she gave herself completely; each time, she thought it would last forever.
Yet, goodbyes came, one after another, with increasing frequency. She lost her first love, and the grief felt as long as a century. But by the time the twentieth, the fiftieth lover grew cold, old, and finally turned to dust in her arms, that grief began to mutate. It was no longer sharp but a heavy, familiar, hollow routine. She began to fear deep attachment, because every profound love merely accumulated material for inevitable, repetitive heartbreak. Family bonds, friendships—they were the same. She became an eternal, lonely coordinate on a family tree, watching generations of her bloodline be born, grow, age, and vanish, while she remained the “unchanging ancestor.”
To combat the void, she tried everything. She once disguised herself as a man and threw herself into the brutal chaos of war, feeling the fragility of flesh and the searing heat of courage amidst the smoke. She also hid her identity, becoming the most silent woman in a bustling weaving shed during the early Industrial Revolution, seeking moments of emptiness in the rhythm of the machines. She possessed vast wealth and experienced dire poverty. She reached the pinnacle of power and tasted the struggle of the lowest depths.
But centuries later, a “death” more terrifying than death itself descended: ennui. Ennui with repetition, with farewells, with the constant need to adapt to new eras, new ideologies, new moralities. Every era she had once loved, every cause she had fought for, eventually became the “past.” She was in a perpetual state of saying goodbye to her former selves and former worlds. New technologies, new art forms, new social structures emerged, offering initial stimulation, only to quickly become “old news” she had to learn. Eternity became an endless cycle of “refreshing” and “forgetting.” She was like a duckweed, drifting endlessly on the river of time, yet never able to truly take root in any single “present.” The discoveries that once made her blood boil, the losses that once shattered her heart, the loves that were once etched in her bones—all were diluted into a faint background hum over the vast scale.
Eventually, she stopped even trying to “experience” things deliberately. She merely existed, watching sunrises and sunsets, dynasties rise and fall, like watching an infinitely looping, long movie whose plot gradually faded. A profound, bottomless weariness and indifference became her eternal companions.
Struggling free from this centuries-long slumber, the sunlight had moved from one side of the windowsill to the other, falling on her messy desk in a lazy, golden patch. It was afternoon. Nicki lay still, her body feeling both hollowed out and relieved of a tremendous weight. The weariness from the dream was so real that the slow, strong beat of her heart in reality felt like a miracle worthy of gratitude.
She watched the dust motes dancing in that small patch of light, and a thought surfaced, clear and simple:
What gives a life value was never its length.
Immortality was not a blessing, but the longest prison sentence. It stripped away the urgency, the preciousness, and the weight of every choice brought by “finitude.” It is precisely because we know a flower’s bloom is brief that we marvel at it; because we know gatherings are hard-won that we cherish companionship; because we know the curtain will eventually fall that we strive to leave our own beam of light on the stage, even if only for a moment.
Finitude is not a flaw of life, but the mold that shapes its meaning. It is death that defines the brilliance of life; it is farewell that gives sweetness to reunion; it is “not having enough time” that urges us to love, to venture, to feel.
She sat up, feeling no post-nightmare fear, only an unprecedented, lucid lightness. Outside, the brief, playful shouts of children drifted by and then faded. This moment, this utterly ordinary afternoon, this one-and-only, twenty-three-year-old afternoon where she was precisely this age, healthy, with real worries, suddenly glowed, immeasurably precious.
She did not need eternity. She only needed to live this afternoon well, and every other finite day that would, inevitably, come to an end. The fantasy of immortality, like a cold mirror, had ultimately reflected her deepest yearning and love for this one, brief, and therefore tumultuous and magnificent life.
9: Best Choices
The final paper loomed over the desk like a mountain. Nicki stared at the screen, the cursor blinking at the end of a paragraph, blinking for twenty minutes. She knew she should keep writing, but her mind felt shrouded in fog. She opened her phone for a distraction, scrolling into feeds filled with perfectly curated schedules shared by others:waking at 5 a.m., meditation, reading, eight hours of highly productive work, learning new skills. Each entry felt like a silent condemnation of her current paralysis.
"If only I could be like a machine," the thought came, sharper tonight than ever before. Strip away all emotional interference, strip away laziness, leaving only precise judgment and unwavering action.
She picked up the black stone from her pillow. Its smooth, cool touch steadied her racing heart unexpectedly.
When she regained consciousness, something was different. Looking at the stalled paragraph, a chain of clear logic unfolded automatically in her mind: The argument is weak, requires a third supporting case, the optimal reference is the article from the fourth issue of 'Sociological Studies' last year. Without hesitation, her hands moved to the keyboard.
The first few days were bliss. She advanced all her tasks at an astonishing pace. Procrastination vanished. Even choosing what video to watch while eating became an instantaneous decision based on "information density." Life transformed into a straight, smooth runway.
But this decision-making mode wasn't universal. One Wednesday afternoon, Andi showed up unannounced, eyes red and swollen, fresh from a breakup. Nicki poured her a glass of water and listened as she poured out her heartache. Nicki listened patiently while, simultaneously, her brain worked efficiently: Sadness is a normal neurochemical process, average recovery cycle 21 days; recommend 30 minutes of daily aerobic exercise to stimulate endorphins; suggest reading chapters four and seven of 'Intimate Relationships.'
"So," Nicki began, clear and steady as Andi's sobs subsided, "I suggest you develop a three-week emotional recovery plan. The first phase allows for grief, but single immersion periods should be capped. Start jogging tomorrow from 4 to 4:30 p.m.; here's the optimal route planning for the area. Also, here are three books and two podcasts dealing with post-breakup psychological rebuilding; I recommend consuming them in this order."
Andi's tears halted on her cheeks. She looked at Nicki, confusion in her eyes, and something deeper—like she was looking at a strange instrument.
"Nicki," she said softly, voice hoarse, "I just... needed someone to listen."
Nicki nodded. "Venting has been logged and confirmed to have a positive effect on anxiety reduction. We can now proceed to the solution discussion phase."
Andi didn't say another word. She picked up her bag, offered a strained smile, said she remembered something else, and hurried out. After the door closed, the room was quiet. Nicki stood there, feeling a peculiar "discord." Her suggestions were optimal, rational. Why was the outcome wrong?
This sense of "discord" grew more frequent. She could no longer enjoy a meal because her brain automatically analyzed the nutritional balance and optimal eating speed. She couldn't appreciate a sunset because the visual information was instantly converted into "aesthetic stimulation units" and assessed for "time-cost benefit." Even when her mother called to chat about mundane things, she found herself silently calculating the "familial bonding utility value" against the "time opportunity cost" of the call.
Life became a series of parameters to optimize. The world seemed transparent and bland to her, everything having its weight, path, and optimal solution. She no longer felt anxious, but also felt no anticipation; no longer felt tired, but also no true relaxation. It was like living in a perfectly functioning, climate-controlled, dust-free glass dome, watching the world outside with its storms, chaos, and warmth, unable to touch it.
One evening, she completed the final task on her schedule—"18:00-18:30: Review daily efficiency, grade A+." She stood by her apartment window, looking at the city lights. Her brain automatically pulled up economic data, population flow trends, and nighttime energy consumption statistics for the city. The information was sufficient, but looking at those lights, she only felt distance and cold.
She suddenly remembered a night long ago, a similar evening, when she, Andi, and a few other friends had crowded onto a rooftop, talking nonsense and dreams over cheap beer. No one considered the "optimal solution" then; time was "wasted" unapologetically, the laughter was loud, the night breeze pleasant.
A sharp, almost painful longing pierced her perfect rational barrier. She yearned for that kind of "waste." She yearned for moments without utility, for feelings that couldn't be calculated, even for a bit of reasonable, human inefficiency.
Slowly, almost tentatively, she switched off the "optimization engine" that had been running nonstop in her mind.
A long-absent weariness washed over her, mingled with a strange lightness. She moved away from the window. Instead of engaging in the "optimal evening self-improvement," she dug out a box of slightly stale cookies from the back of a drawer and made herself an overly strong cup of tea. She sat down, took a bite of the not-very-tasty cookie, and simply watched the tea leaves swirl in the cup, thinking of nothing.
The night grew deeper, the tea grew cold. She felt the chill but didn't want to move. In this moment without optimal solutions, without evaluation, just being, she finally touched a sliver of something real, something that felt like Nicki's own warmth.
10: Balance
Nicki placed the black stone on her nightstand, looking at it not with curiosity this time, but with a deep weariness. The previous dreams—extreme love, extreme wisdom, extreme beauty, extreme wealth, extreme belonging, extreme efficiency, even extreme immortality—felt like overly saturated dramas, forcibly stuffing her into various "perfect" shells only to let her taste the ensuing, equally extreme emptiness or burden. She was tired of it. The author (or fate, or this stone) seemed only capable of creating extremes.
"Why can't it just be 'just right'?" she thought. Not a perfect family, but one with warm and reasonable boundaries. Not craving universal admiration, but seeking a place in the hearts of a few important people. Not wanting to be an efficiency machine, but still managing to complete tasks with composure. Especially in love, she was done with the extremes in her dreams—either having no self or being suffocated by entanglement. She wanted a balance: finding that beautiful, dynamic midline between independence and attachment, between giving and receiving, between self and "Someone."
This desire felt more "mature," more "wise" than any before. She almost grasped the stone with a problem-solving calmness.
The dream began peacefully. She was living that "ideal" balanced life. Time was allocated reasonably, work and life were in harmony, friendships were maintained moderately. She met "Someone," and the relationship developed steadily. She carefully maintained this balance, like a tightrope walker constantly making micro-adjustments with a pole.
The problem first appeared in the monitoring of "balance." She began, unconsciously, to place invisible scales in her heart. He initiated the text three times today, I replied twice; he seems a bit more active, I should start the next conversation to maintain equilibrium. He paid for dinner this date, so I should buy the movie tickets, and the price should be roughly equivalent. He vented about work troubles for ten minutes, so I should share a minor worry of mine, but preferably for eight to twelve minutes, to avoid over-soliciting or appearing distant.
This calculation was subtle at first, then almost instinctual. Balance, from a beautiful state, mutated into a strict set of accounting principles. She became hypersensitive, quickly catching any tiny "imbalance" in the relationship. He spent half an hour more playing ball with friends on the weekend than the time he promised her last week—a feeling of being slighted surged up, even though he had informed her in advance and apologized. He once forgot she mentioned disliking a certain ingredient—see, he doesn't care as much as he says. Each "imbalance" accumulated resentment and grievances, eventually erupting into accusations: "Why do I always have to accommodate you?" "You're not putting in enough effort in this relationship!"
"Someone" moved from confusion and defense to exhaustion. Arguments became frequent. Nicki was also in pain. She didn't understand: she was working so hard to maintain fairness, to pursue balance, so why was the relationship deteriorating? She was just defending her rightful half, was that wrong? The dream-her was trapped in this logic: balance meant precise equal exchange, any deviation was damage to the relationship.
After another intense argument, she fell into an exhausted sleep and woke from this dream about "balance."
Dawn was just breaking. She lay in her quiet, real-world bed, no "Someone," no ledger requiring immediate balancing. The exhausting feeling of nitpicking from the dream lingered, but the clarity of reality was returning.
A completely different thought, like the first light of dawn, pierced her mind without warning:
In matters of the heart, why insist on "you gave this much, so I must repay equal value"?
Why can't it be, "you gave a little, I feel grateful, and so I want to give you more"?
This simple shift made her pause. In the dream, she was obsessed with measuring and comparing, treating love as a transaction that had to be exact to the last detail. The result was always feeling the other person didn't give enough, while she herself gave grudgingly. What she defended wasn't love, but her own position of "not getting the short end of the stick."
But the thought that just flashed... it held no calculation, only flow. It didn't pursue static balance, but trusted that the river of emotion would flow naturally with kindness and reciprocation. Sometimes the water level is higher on this side, sometimes on that side, but overall it is abundant, moving forward.
She sat up, looking at the gradually brightening sky outside. The black stone lay quietly on the nightstand.
She suddenly smiled, a hint of self-mocking understanding. So that was it. This stone, or these dreams, pushing her again and again to the extreme of some concept, perhaps wasn't to help her find the "correct" answer, but to let her see: Life, especially love, fundamentally rejects any rigid "universal strategy."
Pursuing extreme love leads to suffocation, pursuing extreme fairness leads to coldness, pursuing extreme independence leads to loneliness, pursuing extreme fusion leads to loss of self. And pursuing that meticulously planned, flawless "balance" ultimately yields nothing but a cold emotional ledger, settling all accounts and settling all warmth in the process.
No formula guarantees happiness. True "just right" might not be a carefully calculated midpoint, but a dynamic, trust-filled courage to sometimes be "unbalanced." It is the generosity to give a little more at times without immediately demanding return, the tolerance to accept the other's occasional clumsiness or neglect, the freedom to move flexibly between "me" and "us" without clinging to a fixed ratio.
The black stone couldn't give her the answer to "balance." It merely used another extreme dream to tell her: when you try to measure feelings with a ruler, you have already lost them.
Morning light fully illuminated the room. Nicki felt an unprecedented lightness. She no longer needed to search for that "correct formula" about love, about life, about everything. She only needed to go and experience things genuinely, carrying this bit of clarity with her now.
Final Chapter: The Awakened Reader
Nicki held the black stone up to her eye, examining it against the desk lamp. The swirling mist inside seemed fainter than when she first saw it, with tiny, almost imperceptible cracks now visible at its core.
"So this is the ending?" she said to the empty air, her voice clear in the quiet dorm room. "Make me experience all the extremes—love, wisdom, beauty, wealth, family, being needed, efficiency, immortality, even 'balance'—and then tell me the answer is... ordinariness?"
She set the stone down. It made a soft tap against the wooden desk.
"Isn't this still just a trope?" Nicki smiled, not the epiphanic smile from her dreams, but one tinged with resignation and understanding. "Swinging from one extreme to another, from pursuing perfection to praising the mundane. Author, you've gone in a big circle, but you're still trapped in your own logic."
She stood up and walked to the window. The campus at night was quiet. In the distance, the library lights were still on, a few figures moving inside. An utterly ordinary night.
But Nicki suddenly realized something: in all those dreams—no matter how extreme an existence the author made her—the person who woke up was always herself. The one who chose to pick up the stone, to experience the dreams, to wake from each one with some kind of understanding, was always Nicki.
The author could dictate what she dreamed, could set up those exaggerated contrasts and sermon-like revelations. But how to treat these dreams, how to live after waking up—that was something no one could dictate.
"'Ordinary life'..." Nicki repeated the words softly, her finger tracing an unconscious line on the windowpane. "If all those extreme experiences were just dreams, then what is 'ordinary'?"
She understood then. Those dreams were stimulating, they made her feel something upon waking, precisely because she had an "ordinary" reality to return to. If she truly lived in perpetual perfection, perfection would become the new ordinary. If she were truly immortal, infinite time would become just another day.
The extreme needs the ordinary as a backdrop to be seen, just as light needs darkness to be visible.
Nicki returned to her desk and took one last look at the black stone. It lay there quietly, no longer glowing, no longer mysterious, like a truly ordinary piece of dark rock.
She didn't put it back in its box, nor did she throw it away. She simply left it on the desk among her other things—a pencil holder, a water glass, a novel left open halfway. It became an ordinary object in her ordinary life.
The author had given her ten grand dreams, ten extreme experiences, ten exaggerated life lessons. But life was Nicki's own. She didn't need to pursue those extremes, nor did she need to deliberately praise the mundane. She just needed to live her life each morning she woke up—a life sometimes efficient, sometimes procrastinating; sometimes confident, sometimes anxious; sometimes lonely, sometimes loved.
And that, perhaps, was the most thrilling part: knowing she possessed the ability to dream, but choosing to wake; knowing she could pursue any extreme, but choosing to remain in the complex, contradictory, imperfect reality.
Nicki turned off the light and lay back in bed. Moonlight filtered through a gap in the curtains, casting a slender beam of light across the stone's surface.
In her final moments before sleep, she thought vaguely: No dreams tomorrow. But there's an early class, an unfinished paper, lunch with a friend, all the small, extraordinary possibilities within an ordinary day.
And that was enough.
