There was a dream we whispered in the night, whispered so low we could barely hear our voices, yet we knew; we all dreamed it, were haunted by it—ever dreaming as it followed us, invisible in the day.
I am the last dreamer, I suppose; the only one to grow up.
I have let the dream fade, as well as it would, whitewashing it under many and various memories.
It is well hidden, but it’s there, in the darkness, in the shadows of my mind.
The others, consumed in fire, their bones buried in ash, do they dream still?
Tale Told 