The City That Never Slept: A Story
There was a city that had no name, for names implied identity, and identity implied individuality—something that the rulers of this place had long erased. Some whispered that it was once called Elarion, a land of light and freedom, but those days were gone. Now, it was simply known as The Clockwork Dominion.
It was a city where the streets pulsed with an eerie glow, where gears turned in the sky like the face of some ancient, relentless clock. The people moved like shadows, their eyes hollow, their hands trembling, their bodies weakening—yet never stopping.
Because here, no one was allowed to sleep.
The Law of Wakefulness
It was the law. Sleep was forbidden. Rest was treason.
The rulers—witches and wizards who had long abandoned their humanity—had decreed it so. They sat in their black towers, their skin smooth with stolen youth, their eyes burning with unnatural fire. They no longer needed sleep, for they had transcended it through dark magic.
But the people?
The people were still flesh and blood. And flesh and blood needed rest. But rest was weakness. Weakness was punishable by death.
Every morning, every night—though time had long lost meaning in the eternal waking city—the decree was announced through the floating metallic orbs that hovered over every street, their voices cold and emotionless:
"He that sleepeth is slothful. He that is slothful is useless. And the useless must perish."
And so, the people obeyed.
They worked the machines. They tilled the poisoned earth. They labored in the underground factories, where the air was thick with the scent of burning metal and flesh. Their minds ached, their hands shook, but they did not stop.
Because to stop was to close one's eyes.
And to close one's eyes was to invite death.
The Price of Wakefulness
At first, it was merely exhaustion. A slow, creeping thing, like a shadow at the edges of their vision. Their thoughts became fog, their limbs sluggish.
Then came the hallucinations. Faces that were not there. Voices whispering from the cracks in the walls. They saw things in the corners of their vision—things that moved when they did not.
Then came the accidents. Fingers crushed under machines. Men stepping off buildings, convinced they were walking through open doorways. Mothers dropping their infants, unaware that they had even let go.
Then came the sickness.
The young died first, their bodies too fragile to endure the endless waking hours. Their skin turned pale, their eyes sunken, their minds broken. Some simply collapsed in the streets, their hearts unable to bear the strain.
Yet the rulers did not care.
"The wicked have no peace," they proclaimed. (Isaiah 57:21)
"And so, neither shall you."
The Rebel and the Dreamer
But in the darkness of the sleepless city, there was one who remembered what it meant to rest.
Her name was Naomi.
She was the daughter of a man who had once been a scholar, before books were burned and learning was replaced with labor. Her father had whispered to her, when she was still young, of the days before the witches and wizards ruled, before sleep was outlawed.
"He giveth His beloved sleep," he had told her. (Psalm 127:2)
She did not understand then. But she understood now.
She saw the people dying. She saw the city rotting. And she knew, deep in her soul, that this was not how it was meant to be.
So she did the unthinkable.
She slept.
For the first time in years, Naomi let her body go limp, let her mind drift into the unknown realm of dreams. And in her sleep, she saw what the rulers feared most:
She saw the truth.
The Power of Dreams
When Naomi awoke, she knew.
Sleep was not weakness. It was power.
The witches and wizards had not abandoned sleep—they had stolen it. They thrived because the people suffered. Their magic was fueled by the exhaustion of the masses. The more the people worked, the more powerful the rulers became.
Naomi ran through the streets, shouting for all to hear:
"The Lord will cause them that afflict thee to perish!" (Deuteronomy 30:7)
Some ignored her, their minds too lost to fatigue.
But others listened. Others followed.
And in the dead of the eternal waking night, Naomi led the first rebellion.
She taught the people how to sleep.
They gathered in hidden places, whispering forgotten prayers, resting their weary heads on cold stone floors. The moment their eyes closed, something changed.
The gears of the city stuttered.
The floating orbs flickered.
The witches and wizards felt their power fade.
The city trembled.
Because for the first time in centuries, the people dreamed.
The Fall of the Sleepless Lords
The rulers descended from their black towers, their illusions flickering, their perfect skin cracking. They screamed, but their magic faltered.
"Awake, awake! Put on strength, O arm of the Lord!" (Isaiah 51:9)
But the people did not awaken. They rested. And in their rest, they reclaimed what had been stolen.
One by one, the witches and wizards fell. Without the stolen vitality of the people, they aged in an instant. Skin withered. Bones crumbled. Their immortal bodies, fueled by endless suffering, could not withstand the weight of time.
By dawn—if there had ever been a true dawn in that city—they were gone.
And the people?
They slept.
For the first time in generations, they slept.
The New Dawn
When the people awoke, the city was different. The sky was no longer a hollow, mechanical gray, but a soft and endless blue. The gears had rusted to stillness. The air was fresh.
And in the streets, Naomi stood, watching the rising sun.
She smiled, and whispered the words her father had spoken long ago:
"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…" (Psalm 23:1-2)
And so, the city was reborn.
Not as a kingdom of metal and torment, but as a land of peace. A land
of rest. A land where no one was afraid to close their eyes ever again.
For the first time, in a long, long time…
The city slept.
