The Island Where Nobody Dreams

The first thing I learned about the island of Sveti Nikola was that silence has a sound.

It’s not the absence of noise—that would be too simple, too easy to dismiss as a trick of the ears. This was something else entirely. A presence. A weight that pressed against my eardrums like the pressure before a thunderstorm, making me want to swallow, to clear my throat, to do anything to break it.

But I didn’t. Not yet.

I stood at the railing of the small ferry, my fingers curled around the salt-crusted metal as the boat cut through water so impossibly blue it looked like spilled ink from a painter’s palette. The wind whipped my long dark blonde hair into a frenzy around my face, and I could taste the Adriatic on my lips—brine and freedom and the sharp tang of something new.

Zagreb felt like a different planet now.

The city had been suffocating me for months. The constant noise of trams rattling past our apartment window, my father’s heavy silences that spoke louder than any shouted argument, the way our home had become a battlefield of things left unsaid. I’d spent my seventeenth birthday watching raindrops race down the windowpane, wondering if anyone would remember to say happy birthday before midnight.

My mother remembered. She always remembered. But she’d wrapped her arms around me with trembling hands and whispered, “Lidia, I need you to go somewhere safe. Just for a while. Just until—”

Until what? She never finished the sentence. She never had to. I knew what she meant. Until my father’s moods settled. Until the tension in our apartment became breathable again. Until everything went back to the way it used to be, before the arguments, before the slammed doors, before the nights I lay awake listening to my mother cry in the bathroom with the faucet running.

So here I was. A boarding school on a tiny island off the Dalmatian coast. An island I’d never heard of until three weeks ago, when my mother pressed a brochure into my hands with the desperate hope of a woman offering a life raft.

“The island where nobody dreams,” I’d read aloud, frowning at the poetic tagline. “Find peace for your restless mind.”

I’d thought it was just marketing. A clever phrase to attract troubled teenagers like me.

Now, watching Sveti Nikola emerge from the morning haze, I wasn’t so sure.

The island rose from the sea like a sleeping giant, its limestone cliffs catching the early sunlight and throwing it back in shades of gold and white. Dark green pines clung to the slopes, and I could make out clusters of terracotta rooftops nestled in the valleys—a village, maybe two. The architecture was unmistakably Dalmatian: old stone, red tiles, and the kind of weathered beauty that made you understand why poets wrote sonnets about this coast.

But it was the monastery that stole my breath.

It sat at the island’s highest point, a sprawling complex of ancient stone that seemed to grow organically from the cliff itself. Towers rose against the sky like fingers reaching for something just out of grasp, and I could see the remnants of old fortifications—battlements and arrow slits that spoke of a time when this place had been built for defense rather than education. The Adriatic sun caught the windows, making them flash like signals. Or warnings.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I turned to find the ferry’s captain beside me, a weathered man with skin like cracked leather and eyes the color of the sea. He was smiling, but there was something careful in his expression, as if he was watching to see how I’d react.

“It’s incredible,” I admitted.

He nodded slowly. “It’s something, all right. You’re the new girl, then? At the school?”

“Yes. Lidia.”

“Lidia.” He tested the name on his tongue. “From Zagreb, yes?”

I nodded, surprised he knew. Then again, I supposed there weren’t that many passengers heading for Sveti Nikola. The island wasn’t exactly a tourist destination.

“My niece went there,” he said, and something in his voice shifted. A shadow of something I couldn’t quite name. “She said... well, she said it changes you.”

I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

“Changes you how?” I finally asked.

The captain looked out at the approaching island, and for a moment, I thought I saw something like regret flicker across his face. “You’ll see,” he said quietly. “You’ll see soon enough.”

He walked away before I could ask anything else, leaving me alone with the wind and the waves and a growing sense of unease that I couldn’t quite shake.

The ferry docked at a small harbor that looked like it had been carved from the same ancient stone as the cliffs. Whitewashed buildings crowded the waterfront, their shutters painted in cheerful shades of blue and green and yellow. Fishing boats bobbed gently in the marina, their nets drying in the sun. It looked like a postcard. It looked like paradise.

But something was wrong.

I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. The harbor was bustling enough—there were fishermen mending their nets, old men sitting on benches playing cards, women hanging laundry from windows overlooking the water. The sounds were right, too: the cry of seagulls, the slap of water against stone, the distant hum of conversation.

But the conversation was muted. Subdued. No one laughed. No one raised their voice. The children I saw playing near the water’s edge did so in near silence, their games punctuated by gestures rather than shouts.

I stepped off the ferry and onto the dock, my suitcase bumping against my legs. The moment my feet touched the stone, the silence seemed to deepen. It wasn’t just that it was quiet—it was that the quiet felt deliberate. Intentional. As if the island itself had taken a deep breath and was holding it, waiting for something.

Waiting for me.

“Lidia?”

I turned to find a woman standing at the end of the dock. She was tall and slender, dressed in simple gray robes that marked her as a nun—though she wore no habit, only a small silver cross at her throat. Her hair was white as sea foam, pulled back in a severe bun, and her face was the kind of beautiful that was almost painful to look at. High cheekbones, a straight nose, lips that seemed perpetually pressed into a thin line of disapproval.

Her eyes, though. Her eyes were remarkable. The palest blue I’d ever seen, almost colorless, like ice at the bottom of a frozen lake. They swept over me with an efficiency that made me feel both seen and somehow dismissed.

“I am Sister Mira,” she said. Her voice was low and melodic, with the careful precision of someone who measured every word before letting it escape. “I am the housemistress at the Academy. You are late.”

“Late?” I glanced at my watch. “The ferry was scheduled for—”

“Ferries are unreliable,” she cut me off. “This is something you will learn. The island does not operate on mainland schedules. The island operates on its own time.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that I almost missed the strangeness of her words. Almost.

“Follow me.”

She turned without waiting for my response, and I found myself scrambling to keep up, my suitcase bumping and rattling over the uneven cobblestones. The path led away from the harbor and up into the village, past the whitewashed houses with their cheerful shutters and the old men who watched me pass with eyes that held no curiosity at all.

No one stared. No one whispered. No one seemed to care that a stranger had arrived on their island.

I’d never felt so invisible in my life.

“The Academy was founded in the fifteenth century,” Sister Mira said as we walked. She didn’t look back at me. “Originally a monastery for the Benedictine order. It served as a sanctuary for travelers and a place of contemplation. In the early twentieth century, it was converted into a school for—”

“For troubled girls?” I guessed.

She stopped walking. The suddenness of it was almost jarring.

“Is that what you think you are?” She turned to face me, those pale eyes boring into mine. “Troubled?”

I felt my cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean—”

“Everyone who comes here is looking for something,” she said. “Peace. Answers. Escape. The island gives each person what they need. What they deserve.” She held my gaze for a moment longer. “The question is whether you will recognize it when it finds you.”

She turned and continued walking, leaving me standing there, trying to parse the meaning of her words.

The village gave way to a winding road that climbed steeply up the hill. The cobblestones became rougher, more uneven, and I could feel the burn in my calves as we climbed. Olive trees lined the path, their silver-green leaves rustling in a breeze I couldn’t feel.

“Will I be the only new student?” I asked, trying to keep the breathlessness out of my voice.

“There are forty-seven students currently enrolled at the Academy,” Sister Mira said. “You will be the forty-eighth. Most of them have been here for years. Some are the children of island families. Others... others have come from elsewhere, like you.”

“How long have you been here, Sister?”

She didn’t answer. Not immediately. When she did, her voice was softer, almost wistful. “Longer than I can remember. This place becomes a part of you. The longer you stay, the harder it is to leave.”

“Is that a warning?”

She glanced back at me, and I could have sworn I saw something like sadness in those colorless eyes. “It is simply the truth.”

The monastery appeared before me in its full, breathtaking glory.

Up close, it was even more magnificent than it had seemed from the ferry. The stone walls rose three stories high, the limestone weathered by centuries of wind and salt into a surface that seemed almost organic. Windows were set deep into the walls, their arches carved with faded symbols that I couldn’t quite make out. A massive wooden door stood at the entrance, its surface carved with scenes from what I assumed were biblical stories—though the figures were too worn by time to identify.

Sister Mira pushed the door open, and I followed her into a world that felt older than anything I’d ever known.

The interior was cool and dim, the air thick with the smell of old stone and beeswax and something else I couldn’t identify. Incense, maybe. Or old parchment. The floors were flagstone, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, and the walls were lined with tapestries that had faded to shades of rust and gold.

“This will be your home for the next—” Sister Mira paused. “For as long as you require.”

She led me through a maze of corridors and staircases, and I quickly lost all sense of direction. The monastery was a labyrinth, its halls twisting and turning in ways that seemed to defy logic. I caught glimpses of courtyards filled with lemon trees, of arched windows that looked out onto the endless blue of the sea, of doors that were firmly closed and, I suspected, locked.

We passed two students in the hallway. They were young, maybe sixteen, with the kind of polished looks that came from old money and good genes. They smiled at Sister Mira, murmured greetings, and looked at me with eyes that held nothing at all.

No curiosity. No interest. Just a flat, placid acceptance.

“That’s Eva,” Sister Mira said, gesturing toward one of them after they’d passed. “And that’s Maja. They arrived last autumn. From Split.”

I glanced back at the two girls. They were walking slowly, their heads bent together in conversation, but I couldn’t hear their voices. The silence of the corridor seemed to swallow their words as soon as they left their lips.

“Are they happy here?” I asked.

Sister Mira looked at me with what might have been surprise. “Happy is a complicated concept, Lidia. Are they content? Yes, I believe so. They have found their place in the order of things. That is more than most people can say.”

I wanted to ask more questions, but we’d reached what I assumed was my room, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful or demanding. Not yet. I’d only just arrived. There would be time for questions later.

The room was small but beautiful. A narrow bed with white linens, a wooden desk beneath a window that looked out onto the sea, a simple wardrobe built into the wall. The walls were bare stone, and I noticed the faint outlines of old paintings that had been painted over, their shapes just visible in the right light.

“It’s lovely,” I said, and I meant it.

Sister Mira nodded. “Dinner is at six. The dining hall is on the ground floor. You’ll hear the bell.” She paused at the door. “One more thing, Lidia. The island is... peaceful. You will find that we value quiet here. We value stillness. I trust you will learn to appreciate it as well.”

She left before I could respond, her footsteps echoing down the corridor until the silence swallowed them.

I stood in the middle of my room, my suitcase at my feet, and tried to make sense of what I’d just experienced.

The island was beautiful. Absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. The kind of place that poets wrote about and painters tried desperately to capture on canvas. The monastery was incredible, ancient and mysterious and full of secrets I was already itching to uncover.

But there was something wrong.

I couldn’t articulate it. Not yet. It was just a feeling, a prickle at the back of my neck, a whisper of unease that I couldn’t quite shake. The students I’d passed had been polite enough, but their eyes had been... empty. The village had been charming, but the silence had been oppressive. Sister Mira had been helpful, but her words carried weight I didn’t fully understand.

I walked to the window and looked out at the sea. The water stretched to the horizon, impossibly blue, the sun glinting off its surface like scattered diamonds. In the distance, I could see the faint outline of the mainland, hazy and indistinct, like a memory of another life.

Below me, the monastery’s courtyard was peaceful and still. A fountain splashed quietly, its water catching the light. A gardener worked among the rose bushes, his movements slow and deliberate. A cat slept on a stone bench, basking in the sun.

It was peaceful. It was serene. It was everything I’d been promised.

So why did I feel like I’d just stepped into a cage?

I turned away from the window and started unpacking my suitcase. My mother had packed it with care, folding each piece of clothing with trembling hands, tucking in little notes and reminders that I’d found when I’d opened it at the station in Split. Remember to eat breakfast. Write to me. I love you. I miss you already.

I’d cried on the train. I’d been crying on and off for weeks, ever since my mother had first suggested this place. The tears were a constant companion now, lurking just beneath the surface, threatening to spill at any moment.

But I wouldn’t cry now. I wouldn’t give in to it. I was here to escape, not to wallow. I was here to find peace, not to mourn a life I’d never really had.

I pulled out a worn copy of The Odyssey that my father had given me when I was twelve, back when he was still capable of warmth, of affection. I’d read it so many times that the pages were soft and worn, the spine cracked in a dozen places. I set it on the desk and smoothed the cover with my fingers.

“Homer,” I whispered to myself. “You knew about journeys, didn’t you? You knew about leaving home and never quite being sure you’d get back.”

The book didn’t answer, of course. But somehow, the act of speaking the words aloud made me feel less alone.

I was still standing there, my hand resting on the book, when I heard it.

A sound.

Faint, barely audible over the whisper of the waves and the rustle of the breeze through the window. But unmistakable.

A voice. Singing.

It was beautiful, that voice. Clear and pure and aching with a sadness that made my chest tighten. I couldn’t make out the words—they were too soft, too far away—but the melody was haunting, a minor-key lament that seemed to rise from the very stones of the monastery.

I walked to the door and opened it, peering into the empty corridor. The singing seemed to be coming from somewhere above me, from one of the upper floors. I stepped out of my room and started down the hall, following the sound.

The corridors were empty. The students were still in classes or wherever they spent their afternoons. The silence was absolute, broken only by that distant, heartbreaking song.

I climbed a narrow staircase, my footsteps echoing on the stone. The singing grew louder, clearer, and I could just begin to make out words:

“More than a thousand miles away, beyond the wine-dark sea, there lies a land of endless green, a boy still waits for me...”

The song faded as I reached the top of the stairs, and I found myself in a small chapel. It was beautiful, with a vaulted ceiling painted with faded frescoes and a simple wooden altar. Candles flickered in their holders, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

But the chapel was empty. No singer. No one at all.

I stood there for a long moment, listening to the silence. The singing had stopped, but the melody lingered in my mind, replaying over and over.

More than a thousand miles away...

“Did you hear it?” A voice behind me made me jump.

I spun around to find a girl standing in the doorway. She was small and dark-haired, with big brown eyes that seemed to take up half her face. She was dressed in the same simple uniform I’d seen the other students wearing—white blouse, navy skirt—but she wore it with a carelessness that suggested she didn’t care much about appearances.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I heard someone singing, and I followed the sound, but—”

“Nobody sings.” The girl’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Not anymore.”

“But I heard—”

“You heard nothing.” She stepped into the chapel, her eyes scanning the room as if looking for something. “That’s what you have to understand about this place, new girl. You hear nothing. You see nothing. You dream nothing.”

I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

She came closer, and I saw that her eyes weren’t just dark—they were bruised, shadowed by sleeplessness or worry. She looked older than the other students, though she couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

“You’ll learn,” she said softly. “We all learn. This island... it takes things from you. Things you don’t realize you have until they’re gone.” She looked at me with something like pity. “I’m Ana. I’ve been here four years. I can’t remember the last time I dreamed.”

“Dreamed?” I shook my head, confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Ana laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. “Everything, new girl. Everything.”

She walked past me toward the altar, and I watched her kneel and bow her head, her lips moving in a silent prayer. I stood there, awkward and uncertain, not sure if I should leave or stay.

Finally, I turned and walked back to the door. But before I left, I looked back at Ana.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked. “If the island is so peaceful, so... silent... why are you trying to warn me?”

Ana didn’t look up from her prayers. “Because I made a mistake when I arrived,” she said. “I pretended everything was fine. I told myself the things I was noticing—the silences, the shadows, the dreams I’d stopped having—they were nothing. They didn’t matter. And now it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

She finally looked at me, and there was something terrible in her eyes. Something broken.

“Too late to remember how to leave,” she whispered.

The chapel felt cold suddenly, cold despite the sunshine streaming through the windows. I backed away toward the door, my heart pounding.

“I have to go,” I said. “Sister Mira said dinner is at six.”

Ana nodded, her gaze already going distant again. “Yes. Dinner. You’ll like dinner. The food is good. The company is silent.”

I fled.

I didn’t stop running until I was back in my room, the door closed behind me, my back pressed against the wood. My heart was racing, my palms were damp with sweat, and I couldn’t quite catch my breath.

What had just happened? Who was that girl? And why did her words feel so much like a prophecy?

I walked to the window and looked out at the sea again. The sun was starting to lower toward the horizon, painting the water in shades of gold and rose. It was beautiful. It was serene. It was everything I’d been promised.

But now, I knew.

This island wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a place that took things from you. Dreams, maybe. Memories. The ability to leave.

I thought about my mother, back in Zagreb, worrying about me. I thought about my father, his silences, the arguments that had driven me here in the first place. I thought about the life I’d left behind, the life I thought I was escaping.

And I realized, with a sudden, terrifying certainty, that I might never see any of it again.

The bell tolled from somewhere deep in the monastery. Six o’clock. Time for dinner. Time to meet the other students. Time to pretend that everything was normal.

I took a deep breath and smoothed down my hair. I checked my reflection in the small mirror on the wall—my eyes were wide, my cheeks flushed. I looked frightened. I looked young.

I looked like someone who had no idea what she’d just walked into.

I opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

The singing had started again. Faint, distant, barely audible. But unmistakable.

“There lies a land of endless green, a boy still waits for me...”

I walked toward the sound, my feet carrying me forward despite my better judgment. I couldn’t help it. The melody was beautiful, achingly beautiful, and I needed to know who was singing. I needed to know why.

But as I reached the staircase, the singing stopped. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before, pressing against my ears like water.

And in that silence, I felt something I couldn’t explain. A presence, maybe. A weight in the air around me.

This island was waiting for me. Watching me. Judging me.

And I was absolutely, completely alone.

I turned away from the staircase and made my way down to the dining hall, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The silence followed me like a shadow, and I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that nothing would ever be the same.

The island of Sveti Nikola had me now. And it wasn’t letting go.