Short Story: The Girl Who Painted Dreams

 The Girl Who Painted Dreams

The blizzard that brought Iris to their village was different from all the others that winter. It came with a strange, shimmering quality to the snow, as if each flake had been touched with starlight before it fell. Evie noticed it first as she sat by her bedroom window, working on a new embroidery pattern by candlelight.
"Silver," she called softly to her sister, who was reading one of Thomas's stories by the fire. "Come look at this snow. Does it seem... unusual to you?"
Silver joined her at the window, her pale eyes reflecting the dancing flakes. "It's beautiful," she murmured, "but you're right, there's something different about it. It's almost as if it's been painted rather than fallen naturally."
As they watched, the painted snow began to swirl in patterns that seemed too deliberate to be random, spirals and curves that looked like brushstrokes across the dark sky.
"Girls!" Hope's voice called from downstairs. "Come quickly! There's someone at the door!" Evie and Silver looked at each other with a grin. Their mother always felt that greeting someone at the door was a family affair, when most of the time it was a neighbour or someone wanting to borrow a cup of sugar or something.
Nevertheless, they hurried down to find Thomas already opening the cottage door to reveal a small figure huddled on their doorstep. It was a girl about nine years old, with dark hair plastered to her head by melting snow and clothes that were far too thin for such weather. What caught everyone's attention immediately were her hands, which were stained with paint in every colour imaginable, just like she'd been dipping her fingers in rainbows.
"Please," the girl whispered through chattering teeth, "I need help. I'm lost, and I'm so cold."
"Of course, dear," Hope said immediately, ushering the child inside. "Thomas, fetch some blankets. The poor thing is frozen through."
As they settled the girl by the fire and wrapped her in warm blankets, Evie got her first proper look at their unexpected visitor. She was small with enormous dark eyes that held much sadness. Her paint-stained fingers clutched a battered leather satchel, it must have contained everything precious in the world to her.
"What's your name, little girl?" Hope asked gently, offering the girl a cup of hot chocolate.
"Iris," the girl replied in a voice barely above a whisper. "Iris Moonweaver."
"That's a beautiful name," Silver said warmly. "I'm Silver, and this is my sister Evie. You're safe now, Iris."
The girl's eyes darted nervously around the cottage, suddenly realising that she hadn't even thought of safety when she chose this door to knock on. "I shouldn't stay long," she said. "He'll be looking for me. "Who will be looking for you?" Thomas asked, his voice gentle but concerned.

Iris clutched her satchel tighter. "My guardian. Mr. Blackwood. He... he doesn't like it when I wander off."
Evie and Silver exchanged glances. There was something about the way Iris said 'guardian' that didn't sound right. Was it more like 'captor' than 'caretaker'?
"Are you an artist?" Evie asked, nodding toward the paint stains on Iris's hands.
The girl's face lit up. "Yes! I love to paint more than anything in the world. I paint pictures of everything, flowers and animals and people and places I've never been to but dream about visiting."
"That sounds wonderful," Hope said encouragingly. "Perhaps you could show us some of your work when you've warmed up."
But at the mention of showing her paintings, Iris's expression grew fearful again. "I... I can't. They're not normal paintings. They're... different."
"Different how?" Silver asked gently.
Iris looked around at their kind faces, clearly torn between her desire to trust them and her fear of their reaction. No one moved, they continued to watch and wait for her to show her artwork. Finally, she opened her satchel with trembling fingers and pulled out a small canvas.
The painting showed a simple cottage garden in spring, with flowers blooming with vibrant colours and butterflies dancing among the blossoms. It was beautifully done, with a skill that seemed far beyond her nine years.
"It's lovely," Evie said sincerely. "You're very talented."
"Watch," Iris whispered, and as she spoke, something extraordinary happened.
The painted flowers began to move gently in a breeze that existed only within the canvas. The butterflies lifted from the painted surface and fluttered around the cottage for a moment before settling on Hope's hair like living jewels, then fading back into paint and returning to the picture.
The family stared in amazement. They'd seen many forms of magic over the winter, but nothing quite like this.
"Your paintings come to life," Thomas said wonderingly.
"Sometimes," Iris replied miserably. "I can't control when it happens. Sometimes they do beautiful things, like the butterflies. But sometimes..." She shuddered. "Sometimes they do terrible things. That's why Mr. Blackwood keeps me with him. He uses my paintings to... to frighten people into giving him what he wants."
"That's horrible," Silver said, her pale eyes flashing with anger. "No one should use a child's gift that way."
"But I can't control it!" Iris cried, tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. "What if I paint something scary by accident and it hurts someone? What if my magic is too dangerous?"
Evie moved to sit beside the frightened girl. "Magic is never dangerous when it comes from a good heart," she said firmly. "And I can see that your heart is very good indeed."
"But Mr. Blackwood says—"
"Mr. Blackwood is wrong," Hope interrupted, her motherly instincts in full protective mode. "Whatever he's told you about yourself, whatever he's made you believe, it's wrong. You're a gifted child who deserves love and support, not fear and exploitation."
Over the next hour, as Iris warmed up and began to feel safer, more of her story emerged. She'd been orphaned at age six and taken in by Cornelius Blackwood, a travelling showman who'd quickly discovered her unusual abilities. For three years, he'd been using her paintings to run elaborate confidence schemes, creating illusions to distract people while he robbed them, or painting terrifying creatures to frighten people into paying him 'protection' money.
"I tried to only paint nice things," Iris explained, "but when I'm scared or upset, sometimes dark things come out of my brush. And Mr. Blackwood... he liked the dark things. He said they were more useful."
"Where is this Mr. Blackwood now?" Thomas asked, his jaw set in a grim line.
"I don't know. We were travelling in his wagon when the storm hit. The horses bolted, and in all the confusion, I managed to grab my paints and run. I've been walking for hours."
"Well, you're safe now," Hope declared. "And you'll stay safe. We'll not let anyone use you or frighten you ever again."
That night, they made up a bed for Iris in the loft with Evie and Silver. As the three girls settled down to sleep, Iris seemed more relaxed than she'd been since her arrival.
"Thank you," she whispered in the darkness. "I'd forgotten what it felt like to be somewhere safe."
"You're part of our family now," Silver replied softly. "That's what families do, they keep each other safe."
But their peaceful night was not to last.
Evie woke sometime before dawn to find the cottage filled with a strange, silvery light. At first, she thought it might be moonlight reflecting off the snow, but as her eyes adjusted, she realised the light was coming from Iris.
The young girl was still asleep, but she was painting in her dreams. Her hands moved across an invisible canvas, and wherever her fingers traced, images appeared in the air above her bed, swirling, shifting scenes that seemed to be drawn from her subconscious mind.
Some of the dream-paintings were beautiful, gardens full of impossible flowers, castles made of clouds, friendly dragons with jewelled scales. But others were dark and frightening, shadowy figures with grasping hands, cages made of thorns, and a tall man with cruel eyes who could only be Mr. Blackwood.
"Silver," Evie whispered urgently, shaking her sister awake. "Look at this."
Silver sat up and gasped at the sight of the dream-paintings floating above Iris's bed. "She's painting in her sleep," she breathed. "Her magic is so strong it's working even when she's unconscious."
As they watched, some of the painted images began to take on more solid form. A painted butterfly landed on Evie's hand, its wings feeling surprisingly real. But more worryingly, one of the shadowy figures seemed to be trying to climb down from its floating canvas.
"We need to wake her," Silver said, reaching toward Iris.
But the moment Silver's hand touched the sleeping girl, something unexpected happened. The dream-paintings suddenly expanded, flowing out from Iris's bed to fill the entire room. Evie found herself standing in a painted garden, whilst Silver was surrounded by floating books that opened themselves to reveal stories written in light.
"What's happening?" Iris cried, sitting up abruptly. The moment she woke, the dream-paintings began to fade, but not before they'd left their mark on the cottage. Real flowers had sprouted from the wooden walls, glowing words were still visible on the ceiling, and a small painted cat was prowling around the room, looking very confused about its sudden existence.
"Your magic is incredibly powerful," Silver said gently. "But it's also uncontrolled. When you sleep, your dreams become paintings, and your paintings become reality."
"I'm sorry!" Iris said, tears streaming down her face. "I didn't mean to! I can't help it!"
"It's all right," Evie soothed, though she was privately worried about what might happen if Iris had a nightmare. "We'll figure this out together."
The next morning, they shared Iris's situation with Thomas and Hope, who took the news with the calm acceptance that had become their family's trademark when dealing with unusual magical circumstances.
"The first thing we need to do," Thomas said practically, "is help you learn to control your gift. And the second thing is to make sure this Mr. Blackwood fellow can't find you."
"But how can I learn control?" Iris asked despairingly. "I've been trying for three years, and it just keeps getting stronger."
"Because you've been trying to suppress it instead of understanding it," Silver observed. "Magic doesn't like to be locked away, it needs to be channelled and directed."
"Like water in a riverbed," Evie added. "If you try to dam it up completely, it just builds pressure until it bursts out all at once. But if you give it a proper channel to flow through, it becomes useful instead of destructive."
They decided to visit Rowan and Wren to get their friends' perspectives on the situation. The four children had become the village's unofficial experts on unusual magical problems, and Iris's case was certainly unusual.
They found Rowan and Wren helping Edmund in his smithy, where Rowan was using his shadow-sight to help locate tools that had been misplaced in the organised chaos of the workshop.
"A girl who paints dreams into reality?" Rowan said wonderingly after they'd explained the situation. "That's remarkable. And potentially very powerful."
"But also very dangerous if she can't control it," Wren pointed out. "What if she has a nightmare about something truly terrible?"
"That's exactly what we're worried about," Silver admitted. "Last night, her dream-paintings filled our entire cottage. If she'd been having a bad dream instead of a mixed one..." her voice trailed off, too affraid to continue them.
"The shadows show me something interesting," Rowan said, studying the patterns of light and dark around Iris. "Your magic isn't actually uncontrolled, it's responding to your emotions. When you feel safe and happy, you paint beautiful things. When you're scared or upset, you paint dark things."
"So the key isn't learning to control the magic," Evie realised. "It's learning to control the emotions that drive it."
"But how do I do that?" Iris asked. "I've been scared for so long, I don't remember what it feels like to not be afraid."
"By learning to trust," Wren said simply. "Trust in yourself, trust in your friends, trust that you're safe now."
Over the next few days, the five friends worked together to help Iris understand and channel her gift. They discovered that when she painted while feeling calm and supported, her creations were consistently helpful and beautiful. She painted flowers that actually grew, birds that sang real songs, and landscapes that seemed to bring peace to anyone who looked at them.
But the real test came when her past caught up with her.
It was during their fourth day of practice that Cornelius Blackwood arrived in the village.
Evie was the first to spot him, a tall, thin man in a black coat, driving a gaudy painted wagon through the snowy streets. His face was sharp and cruel, with cold grey eyes that seemed to calculate the value of everything they saw.
"That's him," Iris whispered, going pale as she peered out the cottage window. "That's Mr. Blackwood."
The man was going door to door, showing people a painted portrait of Iris and asking if anyone had seen her. His manner was polite but somehow menacing, and Evie could see that the villagers were instinctively wary of him.
"What do we do?" Wren asked anxiously.
"We protect her," Silver said firmly. "Just like we've protected everyone else who's needed our help."
But Blackwood was clever and persistent. When the villagers claimed they hadn't seen Iris, he began offering rewards for information. When that didn't work, he started making subtle threats about the 'dangerous magical child' who was 'probably hiding somewhere in the village.'
"She's unstable," he told a group of concerned parents. "Her magic is unpredictable and potentially harmful. I'm her legal guardian, and I'm only trying to protect your community by taking her somewhere she can't hurt anyone."
Evie felt sick listening to his lies. He was using the villagers' natural concern for their children's safety to turn them against Iris.
"We have to do something," she told her friends as they huddled together in the cottage. "He's making people afraid of her."
"The shadows show me his true intentions," Rowan said grimly. "He doesn't care about Iris's well-being at all. He sees her as a valuable tool, nothing more."
"Then we'll have to prove to the village that she's not dangerous," Silver decided. "We'll have to show them what her magic can really do when it's guided by love instead of fear."
"But what if I mess up?" Iris asked, her voice shaking. "What if I accidentally paint something scary and prove he's right?"
"You won't," Evie said with absolute confidence. "Because you're not alone anymore. We'll be right there with you, and our magic will help support yours."
That evening, they put their plan into action. They called for a village meeting in the main square, where Blackwood had set up his wagon and was continuing his campaign to turn people against Iris.
"We'd like to show you something," Evie announced to the gathered crowd. "Something about the real nature of Iris's magic."
Blackwood's eyes narrowed dangerously. "The child is my ward," he said coldly. "She comes with me, now."
"Actually," Thomas stepped forward, "she's under the protection of this village. And we'd like to hear what she has to say for herself."
Iris stepped into the centre of the square, her paint-stained hands trembling, but her chin raised bravely. "Mr. Blackwood told you I'm dangerous," she said, her young voice carrying clearly in the cold air. "And he's right, I can be dangerous when I'm scared and alone and forced to paint things I don't want to paint."
She pulled out a small canvas and her brushes. "But when I feel safe and loved, when I'm surrounded by friends who believe in me, my magic can do beautiful things."
As she began to paint, Evie, Silver, Rowan, and Wren joined hands around her, their combined magical energy creating a warm, protective circle. Evie's magic of love and care, Silver's ability to sense connections, Rowan's gift for revealing truth, and Wren's deep empathy all flowed together to support their friend.
Under the influence of their combined support, Iris's painting came alive in the most spectacular way. She painted a winter festival scene, complete with dancing figures, twinkling lights, and falling snow that sparkled like diamonds. As she painted, the scene began to manifest around them, the square filled with gentle music, warm lights appeared in the air, and the falling snow took on a magical quality that made everyone feel peaceful and joyful.
The villagers gasped in wonder as painted children joined their real children in an impromptu dance, as painted musicians played melodies that lifted everyone's spirits, and as painted food vendors offered treats that actually satisfied hunger.
"This is what my magic can do," Iris said, her voice growing stronger with each word, "when I'm allowed to paint from my heart instead of my fears."
The crowd murmured in amazement and approval. Even the most suspicious villagers could see that this was magic used for joy and community, not harm or deception.
But Blackwood was not finished. "Parlour tricks," he sneered. "You haven't seen what she can really do. Child, paint me a demon. Paint me something that will show these fools the true danger you represent."
His voice carried a cruel, magical compulsion that Evie recognised immediately, the same dark magic they'd encountered with Magnus Blackthorne months earlier. It was designed to force Iris to obey, to make her paint from her deepest fears.
For a moment, Iris wavered, her brush trembling as the compulsion tried to take hold. Dark colours began to swirl on her canvas, blacks and deep reds that promised something terrible.
But then Evie stepped forward and took Iris's free hand. "You don't have to listen to him," she said firmly. "You're not his to command anymore."
Silver joined them, taking Iris's other hand. "Paint what you choose to paint, not what he demands."
Rowan and Wren completed the circle, and suddenly the dark compulsion shattered like glass against the strength of their combined friendship and magic.
"I won't paint your demons anymore," Iris said, her voice ringing with newfound confidence. "I choose to paint hope instead."
She turned back to her canvas, and with bold, sure strokes, began to paint over the dark colours. What emerged was a scene of incredible beauty, children of all kinds playing together in a magical garden, their different gifts complementing each other perfectly. Sky-riders soared overhead whilst ground-dwellers tended flowering plants. Shadow-readers shared stories with dream-painters, and everyone was laughing and helping one another.
As the painting came to life around them, the villagers found themselves part of the scene. Their own children were playing alongside the painted ones, and everyone could feel the magic of community and acceptance flowing through the square.
"This is my choice," Iris declared, facing Blackwood with courage she'd never known she possessed. "I choose to use my gift to bring joy, not fear. I choose to paint dreams, not nightmares."
Blackwood's face twisted with rage. "You belong to me!" he snarled, lunging forward to grab her.
But he never reached her. The painted children from Iris's magical scene stepped between them, their forms becoming solid and protective. The painted sky-riders swooped down to also block his path, whilst painted flowers grew up from the ground to tangle around his feet.
"No," said a familiar voice from the crowd. "She belongs to herself."
Mrs. Pemberton stepped forward, holding an official-looking document. "I've been doing some research into Mr. Blackwood's legal claims," she announced. "It seems his guardianship papers are forgeries. He has no legal right to this child whatsoever."
"Furthermore," added Thomas, "we've sent word to the authorities about his use of a child's magic for criminal purposes. They're very interested in speaking with him."
Blackwood looked around at the hostile faces surrounding him and seemed to realise that his game was up. "This isn't over," he snarled, but his voice lacked its earlier confidence.
"Yes, it is," Silver said calmly. "Your power came from Iris's fear, and she's not afraid of you anymore. Without that, you're just a sad, cruel man with no real magic of his own."
As if to prove her point, Blackwood tried once more to use his compulsion magic, but it simply bounced off the protective circle of friendship surrounding Iris. His face went pale as he realised his dark magic was useless against the light of genuine love and community.
"Leave," Hope said firmly. "Leave our village and don't come back. If you do, you'll find that we protect our own."
Defeated and humiliated, Blackwood retreated to his wagon and drove away into the snowy night. The villagers watched until his candlelight disappeared completely, then turned back to the magical festival scene that Iris's painting had created.
"Can we keep it?" asked one of the village children, gesturing to the painted musicians who were still playing cheerful melodies.
Iris smiled, the first truly happy smile any of them had seen from her. "For tonight," she said. "But tomorrow I'll paint you something even better."
As the evening progressed and the magical festival continued, Evie found herself standing with her friends at the edge of the square, watching the villagers enjoy Iris's gift.
"She's going to be all right," Wren observed, watching Iris teach some of the younger children how to mix colours.
"More than all right," Rowan agreed. "The shadows show me that her magic is already becoming more stable now that she feels safe and loved."
"And she's not the only one who's changed," Silver added thoughtfully. "Look at our village. A few months ago, people would have been terrified by magic like hers. Now they're celebrating it."
Evie nodded, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. "We're all learning and growing together. That's what real magic does, it doesn't just change the person who has it, it changes everyone around them too."
Over the following days, Iris settled into village life with remarkable ease. Her magical paintings became a source of wonder and joy for everyone. She painted helpful scenes, gardens that actually grew food, workshops where painted assistants helped with difficult tasks, and cosy reading nooks that appeared wherever someone needed a quiet moment.
But more importantly, she learned to paint her emotions in healthy ways. When she felt sad, she painted scenes of comfort that helped her process her feelings. When she was angry, she painted storms that raged safely within their canvases before dissipating harmlessly. And when she was happy, she painted celebrations that filled the village with music and laughter.
"It's like having a weather system for emotions," she explained to Evie one afternoon as they sat in the cottage, working on their respective crafts. "Instead of keeping everything bottled up inside, I can paint it out and let it exist somewhere safe."
"That's incredibly wise," Evie replied, adding another careful stitch to her embroidery. "Most people never learn how to express their feelings in healthy ways."
"I had good teachers," Iris said with a grateful smile. "All of you showed me that magic is supposed to help people, not hurt them. And that the most powerful magic of all is friendship."
As winter continued to deepen around their village, the five friends found themselves busier than ever. Word had begun to spread to other communities about the village that welcomed magical children and helped them develop their gifts safely. They started receiving visitors - parents seeking advice about their children's emerging abilities, young people looking for a place where they could be themselves without fear, and occasionally, other children who needed rescue from situations like Iris's.
"We're becoming famous," Rowan observed one evening as they gathered in Evie's loft bedroom for their regular planning session.
"Not famous," Silver corrected. "We're becoming a beacon. A light that guides people who are lost in the darkness."
"I like that better," Wren said. "Beacons help people find their way home."
"And everyone deserves a home where they can be themselves," Iris added, carefully painting a small canvas that showed their five faces surrounded by warm, golden light.
As she painted, the image began to glow softly, filling the room with a sense of peace and belonging that seemed to strengthen the bonds between them.
"What are you painting?" Evie asked curiously.
"A memory," Iris replied. "So that no matter what happens in the future, we'll always remember this moment - the five of us together, safe and happy and surrounded by love."
"Will it last?" Wren asked. "Or will it fade like some of your other paintings?"
Iris smiled mysteriously. "This one will last forever. Because it's not just paint and canvas, it's made of something much stronger than that."
"What?" Rowan asked.
"Truth," Silver answered for her. "She's painting the truth of our friendship, and truth never fades."
As the painted memory settled into permanence, the five friends felt a deep sense of completion. They'd found each other, helped each other grow, and created something beautiful together - a community where magic was celebrated, differences were embraced, and everyone had a place to belong.
Outside their window, the snow continued to fall in gentle spirals, and somewhere in the distance, they could hear the sound of laughter from the village square, where some of Iris's painted musicians were still playing their eternal melodies.
"Do you think our adventures are over?" Wren asked sleepily.
"Not over," Evie replied thoughtfully. "But maybe... complete, in a way. We've learned what we needed to learn, helped who we needed to help, and become who we were meant to become."
"There's still one more story to tell," Silver said quietly, her pale eyes reflecting the candlelight. "I can sense it coming, something that will tie all our adventures together and show us the true purpose of everything we've experienced this winter."
"Good or challenging?" Rowan asked, though he was smiling as he said it.
"Both," Silver replied. "The best stories always are."
As the friends settled down to sleep, Iris's painted memory continued to glow softly in the corner, a permanent reminder of the magic they'd created together. And in the morning, when they woke to find fresh snow sparkling outside their windows, they would be ready for whatever final adventure awaited them.
For now, though, they were content to rest in the warmth of friendship and the knowledge that they'd helped another lost soul find her way home. The village slept peacefully around them, protected by love and magic in equal measure, and somewhere in the painted scenes that decorated their dreams, five children continued their eternal dance of friendship and wonder. Winter was drawing toward its close, but their story, the story of a village that learned to see magic in all its forms, was just beginning to spread to the wider world. And that, perhaps, was the most powerful magic of all.

In the air that night, little did they know that magic was just an inner way of thinking outwards, a special power that anyone has, or can have if only they believe in themselves. But, hush! That is one of the secrets of magic that rarely gets told out loud.