The morning sun drenched the roadside in golden hues, and orange trees lined the path like sentinels, their branches heavy with ripe fruit. The sharp citrus scent filled the air. There were no fences, no barriers, no signs of ownership—just an endless row of trees inviting me. I stopped and stared.

“Pluck one,” a voice inside me whispered. “They’re just going to rot.”

But another voice, steadier, more insistent, countered, “It's stealing. You know better.”

The road was silent except for the gentle rustling of leaves. Fallen oranges littered the ground, some already decaying into the soil.

I reached out, trembling with both desire and guilt. Just as I brushed the cool, smooth orange skin, another voice rang out, louder than before: “Stop!”

The orange dissolved in my hand, leaving only the scent of citrus. I jolted awake from my dream, heart pounding, fingers curling into emptiness. The dream lingered, bright and aching, the oranges a symbol of something I couldn't name. 

I stepped out onto my tiny apartment patio, the cold tiles grounding me back to reality. I had no orange tree. I had no garden. I had no house.

It wasn’t just the dream’s vividness that haunted me—it was the sense of loss it brought. My children’s voices echoed in my mind: “We’re embarrassed to tell our friends we live in an apartment.” Their words weren’t cruel; they were truth wrapped in youthful bluntness. They lived in a world of social media glitz, where appearances were currency. I couldn’t give them what they wanted—a home with a backyard, a sanctuary—the dream had awakened something I thought I’d buried.

Something shifted. A whisper from the dream world had followed me back.

It’s possible.

At first, I laughed bitterly. But the whisper grew louder, insistent. Could I reshape my life, turn a dream into reality? That day, determination replaced despair.

Later that morning, I enrolled in a community college course to learn SAP. I threw myself into it, the way one plants a seed in rocky soil, unsure if it will sprout. SAP, the software that organizes the lifeblood of businesses, became my tool. Days blurred into nights of studying, pushing limits, and growing. Months later, with my new credential shining on my resume, I landed a job that offered me a seven-figure salary—a job that rewrote the script of my life.

When the realtor handed me the keys to my house, I cried. Not just for the house, but for the promise it held. The backyard was bare, but in my mind, it was already full of life. The first thing I did was plant an orange tree. I nurtured it like a fragile dream until one day, it stood tall and proud, its branches heavy with fruit.

Now, I walk beneath its shade, pluck guilt-free oranges, and savor their sweetness. My dream stretched beyond the edges of sleep and became real. The oranges taste like triumph.

The surreal had crossed into reality and I was finally home.