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I feel my memories unraveling.
I know this feeling.
It’s the feeling of waking up.
It’s what happens every day when the sun shines over you and you open your eyes. You forget what you dreamed. You forget everything you experienced, everything you knew in the dream world.
Sometimes you’ll remember a flash.
Sometimes you’ll remember a feeling.
But mostly, you forget everything.
You forget your dreams.
You don’t take them with you into real life.
In a split-second I understand. I saved them. My dreaming is done. The time on the watch has ended, and like any dream finished in the depths of sleep, I’ll forget everything and everyone that I dreamed about.
If Uncle Leopold had succeeded he would’ve forgotten his Annalise. It was only because he failed and never finished dreaming that he kept his unfulfilled dreams.
So as I fall into the darkness of sleep, I send out a final desperate cry. “I love you. Find me!”
And then I fall.
And the flow and ebb of a sleep-filled tide washes over me, and it washes away my dreams. It washes away—I cling desperately—I hold onto fragments—a beach cottage—a turquoise cove—a mouth pressed to mine on a moonlit beach—I struggle—I fight—remember—a grove of whistling pines—a hand pressed to my cheek—remember—a song in the dark—an endless sea—him—remember—him—I love him—I love—I love?—I?—
I blink awake.
My head throbs and my mouth is sand-dry.
The winter light speckles across my face. The warm sheets rustle under me as I kick the duvet back, letting in a puff of cold morning air. I yawn, the winter light weak. Through the thick stone walls there’s the sound of a gentle wind, and the high, cheerful singing of birds foraging for winter berries.
I stretch and let out a low moan, staring blearily at the wavy blue ripples of my bedroom window. The soft morning light shining through almost looks like waves in a gentle sea. I can almost feel the current of them flowing over my skin. I turn my head away, back into my pillow, and breathe in the soft floral scent.
Time to wake up.
My muscles are sore and my hand cramped. I must’ve tossed and turned all night long.
I unfold my stiff fingers and stare at the old pocket watch in my hand.
“What?”
It’s the watch my mum gave me, Adolphus Abry’s, the one that doesn’t work. The gold is dull in the weak sunlight and the hands are still.
I shake my head. Drop the watch to the wood of the nightstand. It hits with a thunk and then clatters to stillness.
“Not sure why I slept with you,” I tell the watch.
When I shift to the edge of my bed, something crinkles beneath me and scratches my leg. I reach under the sheets and pull out an old wrinkled piece of paper.
I can barely make out the faded writing. It’s a short note, scratched out in pencil, almost illegible.
It’s real? Save them?
What?
Was I sleep-walking last night?
