Postcards from a Place That Doesn't Exist
The first postcard arrived on a Tuesday, wedged between bills and advertisements like a whisper among shouts. Beth Harmon stood at her kitchen counter, morning light filtering through gauzy curtains, and studied the unfamiliar image. A cobblestone street wound between timber-framed buildings toward a fountain where water caught sunlight like scattered diamonds. Mountains rose in the background, their peaks dusted with snow despite what appeared to be summer foliage below.
She turned it over. No message, just her address in flowing script and a postmark she couldn't quite make out. The stamp bore no country's name, just a stylized oak tree against a sunset.
"Luminaire," she whispered, reading the elegant caption beneath the image. The word felt like a forgotten melody on her tongue.
Beth slipped the postcard onto her refrigerator with a magnet and went about her day, though her thoughts kept wandering back to that impossible little town.
Three more postcards arrived over the following weeks. Each depicted another corner of Luminaire: a bookshop with stained-glass windows that seemed to change colors depending on how Beth held the card; a café perched on a cliff where patrons sipped from steaming cups while watching boats far below; a clocktower with constellations instead of numbers.
The fifth postcard was different. It showed an art gallery with paintings visible through its windows—tiny renderings of the very postcards Beth had received. In the foreground stood a man with his back to the viewer, a leather portfolio tucked under one arm.
This time, there was a message.
I paint what I dream. But how are you receiving them? —Bradley Winters
And an address in Portland.
The gallery was smaller than Beth expected, tucked between a vintage clothing store and an apothecary that smelled of lavender and cedar. Photographs lined the walls—realistic landscapes that somehow felt just beyond reach, like memories of places she'd never been.
"Can I help you?"
Beth turned to find a man watching her, his eyes the particular shade of gray that precedes rainfall. Bradley Winters looked exactly as she'd somehow known he would—tall with unruly dark hair, paint perpetually embedded beneath his fingernails.
"I got your postcards," she said, pulling them from her bag. "Of a place that doesn't exist."
Brad's expression shifted through confusion, recognition, and finally something like wonder. He moved closer, studying the postcards with trembling fingers.
"These are my paintings," he whispered. "But I never made them into postcards. I've never shown them to anyone."
"Then how—"
"I don't know." His eyes met hers. "But I've been dreaming of this place since I was a child. Luminaire."
The name hung between them like a shared secret.
They sat in a nearby café, rain tapping gently against the windows as they compared notes. Brad had been painting scenes from his dreams for years—dreams of Luminaire, though he'd never known its name until Beth spoke it.
"It always feels like returning," he explained, stirring his coffee absently. "Like I'm remembering rather than imagining."
Beth nodded. "In my dreams, I'm walking through those streets. There's always this feeling of... anticipation. Like I'm about to find something I've been looking for my whole life."
"Or someone," Brad added softly.
Their eyes met, and Beth felt a strange current pass between them—recognition deeper than the brief hours of their acquaintance could explain.
"Do you think it's real?" she asked. "Somewhere?"
Brad smiled. "I think some places exist in the spaces between—not quite here, not entirely elsewhere."
Summer faded into autumn as Beth and Brad pieced together their shared dreamscape. They created a map of Luminaire, filling in details from each other's recollections. The fountain in the town square that played different melodies depending on the phase of the moon. The library where books sometimes changed their endings according to the reader's mood. The meadow of flowers that bloomed in colors not found in nature.
Somewhere along the way, their collaboration became something more. They found themselves lingering over coffee, their conversations drifting from Luminaire to their lives, their hopes, their fears.
"I've never told anyone about these dreams," Brad confessed one evening as they walked along the waterfront. "I was afraid they'd think I was crazy."
"Or worse," Beth added, "they'd try to explain it away. Make it ordinary."
"But there's nothing ordinary about finding someone who dreams the same impossible place."
His hand found hers, and she didn't pull away.
The answer came from an unexpected source. Beth's grandmother, now in assisted living and often confused about present-day matters, recognized Luminaire immediately when Beth showed her the postcards during a visit.
"Oh, you've found it," she whispered, eyes suddenly clear. "The halfway place."
According to her grandmother, there were places where the boundary between worlds grew thin—crossroads of reality, she called them. Luminaire was one such place, existing simultaneously in imagination and somewhere just beyond conventional reality.
"Some souls are born remembering," her grandmother explained. "They carry maps to these places in their hearts. When such souls find each other..." She smiled mysteriously. "Well, sometimes they can find their way back."
That night, Beth dreamed of Luminaire more vividly than ever before. She walked its streets, feeling the cobblestones beneath her feet, smelling cinnamon and sea salt on the breeze. Brad was there too, waiting for her beside the fountain.
"I think I understand now," he said in the dream. "Some connections exist outside of time. Like rivers flowing from the same mountain, we were always meant to converge."
When she woke, there was a new postcard on her pillow—one she'd never seen before. It showed Beth and Brad standing together on a hill overlooking Luminaire, their backs to the viewer, hands intertwined as they gazed at the town gleaming in the distance.
She called Brad immediately. "Did you paint a new one?"
"No," he answered, voice thick with sleep and confusion. "But I dreamed—"
"Check your studio," she urged.
Minutes later, he called back. "There's a new painting here. One I never created. And Beth... there's a map on the back."
They followed coordinates to a remote trailhead in the Cascade Mountains. The autumn forest welcomed them with a carpet of bronze and gold leaves that whispered beneath their feet. Neither spoke much as they hiked—this moment felt too fragile for words, as if too much scrutiny might cause it to dissolve like mist under sunlight.
The trail wound upward, sometimes disappearing altogether before reappearing in unexpected places. Around midday, they reached a ridge overlooking a valley shrouded in gentle fog.
"This doesn't make sense," Brad said, consulting their map. "According to this, Luminaire should be right below us."
Beth stepped forward, feeling a strange humming in the air. "Maybe we need to wait. For the right moment."
They sat together on a fallen log, shoulders touching, watching as the afternoon sun began its descent. The fog in the valley shifted, golden light catching in its swirls.
"Beth," Brad whispered. "Look."
As the sun reached a precise angle, the fog below transformed. Light refracted through it in impossible ways, and suddenly, there it was—Luminaire, glimmering like a mirage but undeniably present. The clocktower, the fountain, the winding streets—exactly as they'd dreamed, existing in that perfect moment between day and night, between what was real and what was imagined.
"It was always here," Beth breathed. "Waiting for us to see it together."
Brad's hand found hers, warm and solid. "Some connections bridge more than distance," he said. "They span realities."
Below them, Luminaire beckoned—not as an escape, but as recognition. A place where the deepest parts of themselves had always known each other, across dreams and time and the thin boundaries of the world.
Together, they began the descent into the valley, toward the place that existed in the space between—a testament to the truth that some bonds transcend explanation, some loves create their own geography, and some souls recognize each other across any distance.
The path before them shimmered like a promise finally kept.
If you’ve been following Deeper Meanings from the beginning, you might remember the very first episode where we explored The Midnight Train of Possibilities. That story struck a chord with many listeners, sparking deep conversations about the choices we make and the alternate paths we never take.
Now, I want to share it with you—completely free.
The Midnight Train of Possibilities is more than just a story. It’s an invitation to step outside of your everyday perspective and consider the possibilities that still exist in your life. What if a single decision could alter your entire future? What if the opportunity you’ve been waiting for has been within reach all along?
This is your chance to revisit the story that started it all or experience it for the first time. Download your free copy today and see why this tale continues to resonate with so many.
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Thanks!
Earl
