**The Blue Eyes from the Dream**
Oliver had never known his mother’s touch or his father’s voice. He remembered nothing but the grey, identical hallways and the quiet footsteps of the caretakers at the Leeds children’s home. It was as if he hadn’t been born to a woman at all—just sprung to life within those cold walls. The other children had fragments of memory—a cradle, the scent of perfume, warm hands. He had only the chill of plastic toys and the trickle of water in the basin.
But at night, everything changed.
In his dreams, a woman came to him. She would sit beside him, hold him, stroke his hair, and whisper something kind. Her eyes were like a spring sky after rain—clear, blue, endlessly familiar. He would wake and lie still, staring at the ceiling, afraid to move, as if the warmth of the dream might slip away. For the rest of the day, he was quiet but less sullen—as though a trace of her affection lingered with him.
In reality, things were different. Every day, visitors arrived at the home—prospective adoptive parents. The children dressed up, recited poems, forced smiles onto their faces. They vied for attention, shoved, interrupted. Oliver stood apart. He didn’t clown around, didn’t smile, didn’t beg for glances—he waited. Not for just anyone. For *her*. The woman from his dreams.
“Oliver, please, just smile!” the carer pleaded.
But he only frowned stubbornly and turned away. He knew he wouldn’t leave with strangers. He’d recognize her—the one in his dreams.
One day, a delegation visited the home—celebrating the orphanage’s anniversary. Cameras, photographers, a crowd of unfamiliar faces. Oliver, as usual, sat in the far corner, keeping to himself. But his gaze snagged on one woman. Tall, slender, with short hair and a smile that sent shivers through him. And her eyes—*those* eyes. His breath hitched.
Then—she looked right at him. Their eyes met, and for the first time in his life… he smiled.
The carer nearly dropped her tea. In six years at the home, Oliver had never smiled. Not once. And now—just like that—it was real, bright, effortless.
The woman approached. Sat beside him. He didn’t look away. He listened, laughed, asked questions. And for once, he wasn’t afraid. Being with her felt just like his dreams—easy, safe, real.
She kept coming back. No cameras, no delegations. She brought books, walked with him in the yard, talked about clouds and cities she’d seen. Then—she vanished. For a whole month. Oliver didn’t ask the carers—too afraid they’d say she wasn’t returning.
But she did. She arrived in a simple jacket, no makeup. And said:
“Oliver, I’ve come to take you home. You’ll be my son.”
He couldn’t believe it. Thought he was dreaming. Pinched himself—it hurt. *Real*. He didn’t speak, just held her. Tight. Long. The way only he could.
Later, she introduced him to her husband. A kind, easygoing man who welcomed Oliver as his own. Together, they started anew. The first cake in their flat. Their first trip to the countryside. The first evening falling asleep without the sound of strangers in the hall.
Oliver never went back to the children’s home. But sometimes, passing a mirror, he’d catch a glimmer of that same light in his own eyes—blue, warm, like hers. His new mum’s. His real one.
