The City Where Night Never Ends

There was a city that had forgotten the morning.
No one remembered how long it had been since the last sunrise. The people spoke of it like an old legend, a rumor told to children who no longer believed in blue skies. The streets were lit by soft orbs of light suspended in the air not lamps, but memories of stars. Shadows stretched endlessly, overlapping, until even the idea of day became myth.

Linh arrived in this city by train, though she could not recall boarding one. The station was empty except for a single clock that had stopped at midnight. She stepped onto the platform and breathed in the air cool, metallic, laced with the faint scent of rain that never fell. Somewhere beyond the fog, she heard the distant sound of bells, though there were no churches here.

The citizens moved quietly through the streets, their faces pale as moonlight. Shops never closed, but time had lost its direction. Some claimed that the sun still existed, hidden behind an invisible veil; others said it had burned out long ago, and the night was simply what remained after hope grew tired.

She wandered through narrow alleys and wide squares that shimmered with dreamlike haze. The buildings were built of glass and shadow translucent, reflecting the faint glow of invisible stars. Every window revealed another version of the city, layered infinitely upon itself, like reflections caught in an endless loop.

At a small café, a man was playing piano. The notes were fragile, like light trapped in water. Linh listened, feeling that each chord seemed to remember something a warmth long lost. The pianist looked up briefly, meeting her gaze.

“You’re not from here,” he said softly.

“No,” she answered. “I think I’m dreaming.”

He smiled faintly. “Everyone says that at first. But after a while, you stop asking whether it’s a dream. You just live in it.”

She tilted her head. “Then how do you wake up?”

The man paused his playing. His fingers hovered above the keys, trembling slightly. “You don’t,” he said. “You learn to see.”

He gestured toward the ceiling. Linh looked up and for the first time, she noticed faint lights moving above the city. They weren’t stars. They were people’s memories each glow a fragment of something once lived: a forgotten kiss, a mother’s lullaby, a promise whispered before sleep. The city’s night wasn’t empty; it was full overflowing with everything people had ever loved and lost.

She walked for hours or perhaps years through the night that refused to end. Sometimes she found doors that led nowhere. Sometimes she saw her own shadow moving ahead of her, leading her through corners she didn’t remember passing. In one street, she met a child carrying a lantern made of glass tears.

“Why does the night never end?” Linh asked.

The child looked at her, eyes deep and ancient.
“Because it is still dreaming,” the child said. “And so are you.”

The words echoed long after the child had vanished.
She realized then that the city was alive breathing slowly, dreaming itself into existence. Every inhabitant was a thought, every building a memory, every light a remnant of something half-remembered. The night wasn’t a curse; it was a mirror reflecting everything that refused to be forgotten.

Eventually, Linh reached the highest tower. From there, she saw the entire city glowing faintly, like a constellation drawn upon the earth. The sky above shimmered with invisible motion not dawn, but the idea of dawn, waiting patiently.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “If this is the dream, let me stay until it learns to wake.”

And in that stillness, she understood:
The night did not fear the sun.
It was merely waiting for the dreamer to remember what light truly was.