Yumeka knelt beside the trembling woman inside the carved wooden pavilion, her lifelong goal of guiding the haunted into peaceful sleep pressing against her chest. She had already swallowed the woman's nightmares an hour ago. The shadows tasted of smoke and cold water. Yet the woman still sat upright, eyes wide, refusing to close them. Yumeka unrolled a star-printed mat across the pavilion floor. She guided the woman through slow breaths, soft stretches, gentle bends. For a moment, the woman's shoulders dropped. Then her hands began to shake again. Yumeka set a potted lavender beside her, crushing a sprig between her fingers. The scent filled the air. The woman inhaled, smiled faintly, and whispered that she was still afraid to dream. Yumeka opened her star-covered diary and wrote everything down. The nightmares were gone, but the fear remained, rooted somewhere deeper than dreams. This case had stumped her. She closed the book and sat beside the woman through the long swamp night. By dawn, neither had slept, but Yumeka understood one thing clearly. The trauma was not in the dreams. It was in the waking. Tomorrow, she would need a different kind of help.