When the Wishlight Sleeps​ / Story of Sound Playground

When the Wishlight Sleeps / Story of Sound Playground

That dream appears every night, changing its shape little by little.
A vast plain wrapped in white mist, particles of light drifting in the air, the faint sound of footsteps in the distance—it feels as though they belong to me, yet somehow they seem like someone else’s memories. There’s something familiar in it, and at the same time, I fall into the illusion that I myself am beginning to blur.
Perhaps this is what Jung meant by the collective unconscious?

I follow the trail of glowing particles.
This journey has no name, no map, and yet the landscapes, which seem vaguely familiar, gently guide me forward. Each light holds a sound, and each sound seems to speak. They drift as if they are playing, then vanish into the sky.

I recall memories of a time when I played without a care. Though they’re now faint and blurry, I feel like I once could lose myself just by watching the shape of a leaf.
But are these even my own memories? I don’t know.
Still, when I try to recall the fogged-over scenery, a soft ache wells up in my chest, and I find myself unable to go any further.

“…What is your wish?”

Suddenly, a voice called from behind.
It was quiet, warm, and oddly nostalgic.

“This place,” it said, “is where someone’s wishes have become sound.
By touching them, their feelings begin to resonate within you.”

A wish?
The sudden question confused me, yet it didn’t feel like a newly formed doubt. It was more like something that had always been there, finally rising to the surface and echoing inside my chest.

“And you? What is this place, really?”

I turned to look. Floating there was a fragment of light, hinting at the presence of something more.

“Thank you for asking,” it said. “I’m… well, you could say I’m part of this place. Think of it as a kind of dream.”

The fragments of light gathered into a sphere, speaking as they slowly spun, radiating a soft ripple like a deep breath.
And within that ripple, I began to feel the edges of myself gently dissolve.

“A dream… but it feels far too vivid.”

As I spoke the words aloud, even they seemed to be made of the same dream-stuff, and I fell silent again.

“In this place, what echoes is more real than what has form,” the light said. “Feelings, sounds, wishes.
They remain here without shape, but with undeniable presence.”

Within the sphere of light, many scenes began to shimmer:
A young man snapping his fingers by a river,
A girl curled up on a snowy day,
A voice calling out for someone.

Each of these appeared only briefly, fragmentary, then faded.

“Are these… someone else’s memories?”

“Yes. But more than that, they are wishes.
Wishes strong enough to leave an imprint.
Even if they remain unfulfilled,
if their sound echoed through a heart,
they become a light that guides another traveler here.”

There was something deeply comforting in those words.
That unfulfilled wishes could still have meaning—
I had never thought of it that way.

“…What was my wish, I wonder?”

The question slipped out of my mouth before I realized it.
I wasn’t sure who I was speaking to.
But the light flickered gently, as if responding.

“That’s what your journey here is for—to remember that.”

Spoken with such tenderness, the words drew no resistance from me. I simply nodded.
Then, light surged beneath my feet, spreading like waves, and the landscape around me began to blur and change.

—I stood in a small room.
Outside the window, dusk had fallen. On the desk, a smartphone screen glowed, an unsent message left open.

“I just want to talk, one more time.”

Those words, typed on the screen, looked like they had been written by my hand.

“…Is this mine?”

The question vanished into the air, but something clenched tightly in my chest.
Yes, this must be my memory.
And yet, it also felt like someone else’s pain.

Maybe everything I see here is a kind of resonance—
a place where the boundary between self and other becomes blurred, and sound connects emotion to emotion.

“Your sound,” the voice said, now surrounding me, “is still unfinished.
That’s why I want you to let it echo here.
Search for your wish, remember it, and continue the emotions that never became words—”

The voice no longer belonged to a single entity.
It was everywhere, like wind, resonating from all directions.

And in that moment, I felt a strange certainty.

—I am still in the middle of a story.
The pain of others, my own memories—they all remain here as sound,
and someday, they may light the path for someone else’s journey.

So even after I wake, I can keep writing the continuation.
No, I must.
Now that I’ve touched that sphere of light,
I carry the responsibility of letting my sound resonate.

The dream slowly begins to dissolve.
And just before it ends, I hear a voice, far away, whisper:

“It’s okay. Your wish, too, has been left here.”

—I awoke.
Only the faint afterglow of the light remained,
still trembling deep in my chest.