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For weeks before she saw him again, he came to her in dreams.

At least, she thought it was him. It had to be him. It felt like him, smelled like him…tasted like him. But she never saw his face. In her dreams, she could see nothing, but she could feel…everything.

Her days passed in monotony and vague discontentment — more demons to kill, more slayers to train, more traveling to do. It was sad to think that sleeping was the highlight of her life, but every night she went to bed with a smile on her face.

After weeks of dreaming of his skin, his hands, his lips, she wanted so much to hear his voice, to see his face, to know. All day long, he dwelt in the back of her mind, and her discontent grew.

She started to ask every night. "Angel? Angel, please, answer me." But he never spoke, just captured her mouth in kisses.

Finally, one night she turned to see that she could make out the shape of the lamp on her bedside table. As she reached for it, she heard him at last, whispering, "Buffy, no."

She clicked on the lamp. And then she saw it.

The sword sticking through his chest. The blood soaking into her bed. She cried out in horror.

She woke up. The next night, she dreamed of nothing. When morning came, her pillow was damp with regretful tears.