Dog × The Starweaver
At lamp-lighting it stands at the gate and dreams, and the dream is packed with the people it wants to shield.
At lamp-lighting most dreamers drift somewhere out past the horizon. You stand at the gate and dream too, but every face in the dream is someone you already know. The Dog never imagines a future empty of people. So you are the Starweaver whose whole far vision is really one wish wearing a hundred shapes: a roof over the ones you hold dear.
What you do better than any other Starweaver is keep the dream warm. The cold ones build a perfect tower and forget who lives in it. Yours always has a kitchen light on. You sketch a world ten years out and the first thing you draw is the door everyone gets to come back through, the home you mean to give them.
Here is the place it sinks you. You pick up other people's dreams the way you pick up your own, by feel, without asking whether they were yours to carry. One becomes three becomes the whole street, and the load gets heavier the longer you hold it. New Moon is the darkest sky, the one where you cannot tell your star from the rest. Vega has been the weaver's star a long time and it weaves only its own thread. Some nights, set the borrowed dreams down at the gate and check which one was ever yours.
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A mirror, not a prophecy. It reflects you as you are right now. How you walk is still yours to choose.