Like liquefied gold, the extracts of melted-down dreams could be combined and fashioned into something new, overwriting the past. Creation stemming from destruction. Human imagination distilled into story.

And Venkat loved a good story.

These brief snatches over the past year, when he worked on his own experiments, felt like he’d stepped into one. His favorite creations so far included a replica of his grandmother’s golden elephant necklace, which he’d animated so the elephant actually flapped its ears and trumpeted; a living rose with petals of brine and a perfume of ocean air; and, of course, the pair of scissors he’d shown Nayan. Unfortunately, except for the scissors, none of them had lasted more than a week or two before separating into their dream components.

Venkat just had to identify what made the scissors different. Once he did, not only would he be able to complete his project with Nayan, but he’d also craft a way to save his runners. He glanced at the shelf reserved for the sections of the project he’d already forged, each preserved as an individual dream fragment in its own vial, and all awaiting the day when he would solder them into a whole.

The pain in his heart, which had been poised to spring, relaxed.

Today, he’d put the finishing touches on his most recent design, a hand-sized couch that soared among the stars. He’d been turning it over and over in his mind, exactly as Nayan had taught him, conceptualizing the carved frame, the indigo upholstery, the halo of silver stardust, and considering the particular arrangement of elements he’d need to bring it to life.

If this one held like the scissors, next he would try a tincture, one that would extend the life of a plant. Then that of an animal. And finally, one to heal burnout.

He raised his arms, inviting the vials on the shelves to speak to him. To help him help Jai.

A jar he hadn’t really noticed in years twinkled at him, the lucent green-yellow of marrow-deep desire.

On his ninth birthday, to mark the beginning of his apprenticeship, Nayan had taken him to a place called the Night Market, which lay in its own pocket dimension between the worlds. The entire Market might have been a dream, from its golden peacock-beak entrance to the kinnara and vetala vendors to the eerie singing that serenaded the patrons from all directions at once.

Do you see how these wares are like dream elements? Nayan had asked, leading Venkat past the stalls. Dreams are stories, Venkat, and what is a story if not reordering the familiar in a novel form? He motioned to a nest of spectral eggs, then to a bleeding-tooth mushroom collar. Mix this element with that, and you come up with something wholly yours. You spin a new tale.