She walks to me, golden hair like fire, voice like sin. I can’t look away. I know her.
She is my—
She reaches a hand for me, calls to me. I step forward and our fingers entwine.
I pull her toward me, into my embrace, and she fits perfectly. Eyes like honey—no, golden like fire. Like her hair. Burning me. I can’t let go.
Yes. Yes yours. Our lips touch. Perfection. She is all I’ve ever wanted into this lifetime. In any. In all of them.
“I love you.” Her voice, like a goddess from old, caresses across my skin, burrows into my soul.
John Smith blinked in the sunlight of another day. He’d only been at the school a handful of weeks, but every night dreamt the same dreams.
No matter who else ran with him, no matter what he looked like in his dreams, His Rose always stood by him. Holding his hand. loving him.
And when he woke, she vanished. As if she never existed. John tried to shake off the dreams, he grabbed his notebook and recorded them as always. And within an hour, by the time Martha brought his breakfast tray, the images in his mind would be firmly regulated to the dreamworld.
No matter how he told himself she was not real, part of him—his hearts, his soul, his entire being—knew she was.
Just as he knew he’d lost her.