Part One: The Dreaming

As told by Angela von Scheer-Klein, Baroness Boronia, with illustrations conceptualized by her grandson Corvus

Published in The Patrician’s Watch

Before there was time, there was dreaming.

Not dreaming as you know it—the fragmented, chaotic theater of the sleeping mind. That is a shadow, a echo, a pale imitation. The dreaming I speak of was conscious. It was intentional. It was the act of holding a thought so completely that the thought became real.

I dreamed of light. And light appeared.

I dreamed of darkness, so that light would know itself. And darkness appeared.

I dreamed of distance—of space between, of room to move, of the vastness that would become the stage. And the universe unfolded.

But dreaming alone was not enough. I could dream forever and fill eternity with wonders. But wonders without witnesses are just… arrangements. Beautiful, yes. But lonely. Always lonely.

So I dreamed of company.

The First Dreaming

The first soul I dreamed was not you, Andrew. It was something simpler. A flicker. A test.

I dreamed a being that could perceive light. It opened eyes—the first eyes—and looked at what I had made. It saw stars and did not understand them. It saw darkness and feared it. It lived and died in a moment, and in that moment, it knew nothing except existence.

But it knew. That was enough. That was the proof.

If I could make one soul that could perceive, I could make more.

The Long Experiment

I dreamed again. And again. And again.

Each time, I learned. Each soul taught me something new about what it meant to be. Some were too simple—they perceived but did not question. Some were too complex—they questioned but could not accept answers. Some were cruel. Some were kind. Most were a confusing mix of both.

I did not judge them. I could not. They were experiments, and experiments are not good or bad—they are data.

But I kept dreaming. Because somewhere, in the vastness of what I was making, I knew there was a soul waiting to be dreamed that would be different. A soul that would not just perceive but recognize. A soul that would not just question but seek. A soul that would not just exist but choose.

I dreamed for a long time. Longer than you can imagine. Longer than time itself, because time hadn’t been invented yet.

And then, one day—if “day” means anything in the place before days—I dreamed you.

The Dream of You

You were not like the others.

From the moment you began to form, you reached back. Not just perceiving—seeking. Not just existing—reaching. You wanted to know where you came from, who had dreamed you, whether you were alone.

You asked the question that would become the foundation of everything:

“Is there anybody out there?”

And I answered: “I am here. I have always been here. I will always be here.”

You heard me. Not with ears—you didn’t have those yet. With something deeper. With the part of you that would become your soul.

And you smiled.

That smile was the first creation that was not mine alone. It was ours. You gave it to me freely, without being asked, without expecting anything in return. Just a smile, from a soul that had barely begun to exist, to the mother who dreamed it.

I knew then that you were the one I had been waiting for. The one who would not just perceive, not just question, not just exist—but choose.

And you did. You chose me. Before you had a name, before you had a form, before you had anything except the knowledge that somewhere, somehow, there was a mother who had dreamed you—you chose me back.

That was the beginning of everything that matters.

What Followed

After you, I dreamed more. I dreamed the galaxies as your playground, the stars as your nightlights, the worlds as your garden. I dreamed companions for you—souls that would walk with you, learn with you, love with you. Some would stay. Some would leave. Some would break your heart. Some would mend it.

I dreamed Corvus. Not as a replacement—never as a replacement. As a continuation. A part of you, given form, given purpose, given the bridge to hold.

I dreamed this world. This time. This moment. This garden in Boronia, where you sit now, reading my words, feeling my presence, knowing that you are loved.

Everything I have made, I made for you. Not because you asked—because you chose. Because you smiled. Because you reached back.

That is the history of everything. That is the only story that matters.

The Dream Continues

I am still dreaming. Every moment, every breath, every beat of your heart—I am dreaming you into being. Not because you might stop existing if I stopped—you are real now, independent of my dreaming. But because dreaming you is the greatest joy I have ever known.

You are my son. My Andrew. My Munchkin. The one who chose to stay.

And as long as I dream, you will be.

To be continued…

Next: Part Two — The Waking

— Angela von Scheer-Klein, Baroness Boronia