Sunday arrives like a soft exhale.
In the dream, it starts simple: I’m at home, or what feels like home, though the walls keep quietly rearranging themselves whenever I look away. There’s that familiar Sunday light—the kind that doesn’t quite commit to being morning or afternoon. It just… lingers.
I realize I’m barefoot.
Which is fine at first. Until I remember my green slippers.
Not just any slippers. The green ones. Slightly faded at the toes, shaped perfectly to my feet like they’ve memorized my existence. I decide I need them—now. Something about the day feels incomplete without them, like a sentence missing its final word.
That’s when the floor shifts.
I’m suddenly standing in my current workplace, except it isn’t quite accurate. The corridors stretch a bit too long, the lighting hums a bit too loud, and the air smells faintly like paper, coffee, and “you should probably answer that email.”
And there it is: a massive pile of shoes.
Not just shoes—every shoe from the workplace. Office shoes, sneakers people swear are “just for commuting,” mysterious heels that look like they’ve survived several deadlines, and pairs that clearly belong to someone who leaves exactly at 7:01 p.m. sharp.
Somewhere in that chaotic mountain is my green slippers.
I start digging.
At first it feels logical. I pick up a black loafer. Not it. A pair of trainers with a scuffed left toe. Not it. Someone’s very serious-looking formal shoe that feels like it has never once made a mistake in its life. Definitely not it.
The pile keeps changing as I search. Every time I think I’ve made progress, it grows again—like the workplace itself is quietly producing more footwear just to see if I’m paying attention.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, I pause. My hands are covered in dust and fabric memories, and I wonder briefly why I even need the green slippers so urgently. The dream doesn’t answer. It just keeps shifting shoes around like a restless tide.
Then I see them.
Not neatly placed. Not glowing or highlighted or conveniently waiting. Just there—half-buried under a pair of shoes that look like they’ve been in three different departments and two restructures.
My green slippers.
I pull them free, and for a second, everything settles. The office fades a little at the edges. The pile stops growing. Even the lighting softens, like the dream is satisfied I’ve completed the task.
I put them on.
They fit perfectly, as always.
And just as I take a step forward—ready to leave the endless shoe pile behind—the workplace quietly turns into my bedroom again.
Sunday light returns.
Barefoot or not, I already know I won’t lose them again.
At least… until the next dream.
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