Sofia kept a notebook beside her bed.
It had a blue cover and blank pages. She wanted to write down every dream so she would not lose any.
The first night she woke up and wrote quickly: flying fish, silver door, grandmotherâs garden.
The second night she tried to remember more. The third night she woke herself on purpose.
Soon Sofia was tired. The dreams, instead of coming freely, began to hide.
âWhy donât you visit me?â she asked the Moon.
The Moon entered the room with a pale line of light and touched the notebook.
âPerhaps you are holding them too tightly.â
âBut I donât want to forget.â
âForgetting is not always losing. Sometimes it is letting the dream return to the night.â
The notebook opened by itself.
On the first page a sentence appeared: Write one image, not the whole sky.
That night Sofia made a new promise. If she woke, she would write only the gentlest piece: a colour, a word, a sound.
The dreams returned.
One morning she wrote: blue bell.
Another: warm sand.
Another: a cat made of stars.
The notebook became lighter. Its pages did not trap dreams; they opened small windows.
Sometimes Sofia remembered nothing. On those mornings she drew a tiny Moon and wrote: The dream went home.
And that was enough.
She learned that dreams are not butterflies to pin down. They are visitors. You greet them, you thank them, and if they leave, you leave the window open.