Once, in a world not so different from our own, there lived a woman named Dorothy who had forgotten how to dream. Her days were filled with spreadsheets, unanswered emails, and the quiet ache of a life half-lived. One evening, as she stared at the cracked ceiling above her bed, a storm whispered through her Kansas window-not of wind and rain, but of rustling paperwork and calendar alerts. When she opened her eyes again, the gray cubicle walls had melted into a field of poppies, blood-red and drowsy with forgotten promises.
The Yellow Brick Road lay before her, its gilded path cracked and overgrown. “Follow me,” it seemed to sigh, though Dorothy noticed the bricks shifted whenever she blinked, leading her toward shadows rather than away from them. Her silver heels-replacing the childhood ruby slippers-sank into the mud of compromises made and opportunities lost.
“Lost, are we?” came a voice like crumpling parchment. The Scarecrow leaned against a dead cornstalk, his burlap face weathered into a permanent frown. “They say I need a brain, but honestly? Knowledge just makes the ache worse. Did you know the average adult makes 35,000 decisions a day? Thirty-five thousand chances to choose wrong.”
Dorothy reached to adjust his straw, only to find it made of shredded resignation letters and expired coupons. “What happened to the wonder?” she asked.
“The wonder grew up,” said the Tin Woman emerging from the trees, her joints creaking with unsent apologies. “They told me I needed a heart, but feelings are messy. Better to stay hollow.” She held up a rusted valve where her pulse should have been. “See? No disappointment. No grief. Just… efficient stillness.”
As they walked, the forest grew darker. Whispers curled around tree trunks-*mortgage rates*, *biological clock*, *five-year plan*. The Cowardly Lion trailed behind them, his once-fierce mane matted with anxiety. “I used to roar at challenges,” he muttered, pawing at an inbox that never emptied. “Now I just refresh the page. Over. And over. And over.”
When they finally reached the Emerald City, the gates were boarded up. Spray-painted across the once-gleaming walls read: CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. ETERNALLY. The Wizard’s hologram flickered above them, a pixelated smile stretching too wide. “You’ve always had the power to go home!” it glitched. “Just click here to subscribe to my productivity webinar!”
Dorothy’s silver heels clicked against the broken pavement. “But what if I don’t want to go back? What if I want to stay and fight the storm?”
The companions froze. Somewhere in the dark, a poppy seed took root.
That night, as the false stars blinked out one by one, they built a fire from shredded to-do lists. The Tin Woman pried open her own chest, pouring decades of trapped tears onto the Lion’s matted fears. The Scarecrow rearranged his stuffing into poetry that made the trees lean closer. Dorothy’s shoes finally slipped off, revealing feet calloused from running, but still capable of dancing.
When dawn came-not in a bright burst, but a slow graying of shadows-they found the Yellow Brick Road had changed. It still wound toward the horizon, but now branched into forest trails and river paths and sudden clearings where the light fell differently. The Emerald City’s ruins made better seating than prisons anyway.
As for the Wizard? They say he still appears sometimes, a pop-up ad in the corner of your vision when you’re feeling small. But our travelers learned to close unwanted tabs. The real magic, they discovered, wasn’t in destinations or downloaded answers, but in the courage to walk through the dark without a map-and maybe, sometimes, to sit still in it.
So if you find yourself tonight staring at a screen or a ceiling, remember: Storms can be portals. Lost roads might lead somewhere true. And the most powerful magic often looks suspiciously like breathing through the uncertainty, one rustling, imperfect, beautifully human moment at a time.
Sleep well. The adventure continues at dawn.
