Thirty-seventh day.

Lira was no longer exactly a child.

She’d grown a few inches without meaning to—her body catching up to her mind’s exhaustion. Sunken eyes, longer tangled hair, voice sometimes hoarse from commanding creations. Still wore the dress she’d imagined on day one, now crusted with dried light and dream dust.

That morning, she appeared in the cloud palace with a gun in hand.

Heavy. Black. Too real.

Geraldo was at the counter drinking coffee that never cooled when she entered. The giant stuffed bunny—the only friend left from the old world, with her father’s voice—limped behind, one ear torn since last week.

“Geraldo,” Lira said, voice firm. “Get out.”

He turned slowly.

“Out of what?”

“My dream.”

She raised the gun. Steady hand. Steady eye.

Geraldo didn’t blink.

“You don’t want that.”

“I do.”

The bunny tried to speak:

“Honey…”

Lira didn’t look.

“Shut up.”

Bang.

The bullet roared like thunder inside a skull. Entered Geraldo’s chest, spun, tore through everything that wasn’t real flesh, exited his back. Fell to the floor like a worthless coin.

Geraldo wiped the hole with his hand. Black blood smoked and vanished.

“You can’t kill me,” he said, voice calm as ever. “I know the trick.”

Lira fired again. And again. Five times. Each bullet clinked to the floor.

The bunny stepped in front.

“Lira, stop. He’s helping you.”

She turned the gun on the bunny.

“You too.”

Bang.

The bunny exploded into cotton and memory. Her father’s voice cried one last “I love you” cut short—and turned to silence.

Lira dropped the gun. Cried like a child who breaks her favorite toy and realizes too late.

The sky cracked. Glass rain. Tourists below screamed, ran, froze into panic statues.

Geraldo approached slowly. Knelt before her. Wiped a tear with his thumb.

“Easy. You need me.”

Lira sobbed.

“I want to wake up.”

“You don’t.”

“I do!”

“Then try.”

She tried.

Closed her eyes tight. Frowned. Clenched fists until knuckles went white.

The whole world shook. Buildings swayed. Neon seas rose like tsunamis.

But it didn’t break.

Because deep down, Lira didn’t really want to.

Geraldo hugged her like hugging a bomb that gave up exploding.

“See? You don’t want to wake up. Out there is pain. Needles. Beeping machines. People crying for real. Here you’re everything.”

Lira cried into his shoulder.

“I killed the bunny…”

“He was just memory,” Geraldo whispered. “Memory hurts. We can make another.”

That afternoon she made another bunny. Identical. But silent. Just stared with button eyes and moved when she commanded.

That night, Geraldo sat beside her cloud bed.

“Want me to make them pay extra tax for the broken glass?”

Lira nodded, voice small.

“Yeah.”

“Want me to expel the ones who ran?”

Another nod.

“And anyone who screams again?”

Silence.

“Want me to make disappear anyone who reminds you this isn’t real?”

Lira looked at him. Her eyes no longer a child’s.

“Yes.”

Geraldo smiled.

“Done.”

Next morning, the palace was clean. Glass gone. Runners vanished. No one asked. Everyone paid the extra tax without complaint.

Lira sat on the throne, silent bunny in lap, staring at the horizon now lined with crystal skyscrapers.

“Geraldo?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I still kill you?”

He laughed low.

“You can try.”

She tried again. Made a knife. Stabbed his neck. The knife melted.

Made poison. He drank and asked for more.

Made fire. He walked through and came out smelling of smoke, but whole.

“See?” he said, brushing ashes from his shirt. “Only those who know the trick are immune.”

Lira dropped the silent bunny.

“What’s the trick?”

Geraldo knelt before her once more.

“The trick is knowing you don’t want me dead. Because if I die, you wake up. And if you wake up…”

“Everything ends.”

“Exactly.”

Lira looked at her hands. Nails now painted black—she’d imagined them that way last week.

“I don’t want it to end.”

“Then it doesn’t.”

She held out her hand. He took it.

The world stopped shaking.

And Lira, for the first time, smiled without being a child.