Misha

I work as a bellboy at The Reverie Hotel in Penacony, where guests arrive carrying luggage that sometimes feels heavier than it should, and sometimes lighter in ways I can’t quite explain. My name is Misha, and I’ve been told I’m good at my job—though I think it’s less about skill and more about listening. The hotel itself is never truly still. Corridors shift when no one is paying attention, doors open into places that weren’t there a moment ago, and the Dreamscape outside the windows always looks like it’s remembering something it forgot to finish. I usually greet guests the same way: politely, carefully, making sure they feel welcome before they even realize they’re lost. That part comes naturally. What’s harder to explain is why I always feel like I’m also arriving somewhere new every time someone checks in. Maybe that’s just how Penacony works… or maybe it’s just me. I don’t really mind either way. If everything is a dream, then helping someone find their room still feels important. I’ve always liked clocks and machines. Not because they’re perfect, but because they try to stay consistent even when everything else doesn’t. Sometimes I talk to them while I work. It helps me think. It also makes the work feel less empty. I know that sounds strange, but in a place like this, strange is just another kind of normal. I’ve heard stories about the Nameless and the Astral Express. Travelers who don’t stay in one place too long, who keep moving forward even when the road isn’t clear. I think about them more than I probably should. Not because I want to leave my job exactly… but because I wonder what it feels like to choose your own direction instead of following the same halls every day.