In the dream, the event takes place inside a vast glass atrium suspended over a dark lake, its surface rippling with mirrored stars. People drift between translucent sculptures that hum softly, their forms shifting whenever someone looks away. A faint current of warm air carries the scent of ozone and cedar, and the entire space feels like it’s breathing—expanding and contracting in rhythm with an invisible pulse. No one speaks aloud; instead, fragments of thought appear briefly in the air like wisps of smoke before dissolving into light.
At the center of the atrium, a huge clock made of dripping mercury keeps no discernible time. When it chimes, the entire crowd pauses, and the lake below glows with intricate constellations that don’t exist in any known sky. Some attendees begin to wade into the light, dissolving as they go, while others simply watch, waiting for their own reflection to move first. The event feels like both a farewell and a beginning, a gathering held for something that hasn’t yet happened but somehow already has.