Between Sleep and Waking

In the early hours, twilight still thick in the blinds, I rolled toward the shadow of my husband of twenty years. Even in half-darkness, I knew his features: black hair framing his lips and eyes, Spanish nose, French jaw. Steady. Familiar.

But I could not recall the man from my dreams.

Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes. Was it only a dream—or a memory from another life resurfacing in sleep? His eyes haunted me, pleading to stay. But where was he going? Why must I be left behind?

The details dissolved as I drifted under again.

We were walking hand in hand, our fingers intertwined, his palm warm and steady in mine. Around us, a group moved with purpose. Their garments shimmered faintly, as though woven with strands of starlight. The air smelled of cedar smoke and something metallic, sharp, unplaceable. Their laughter rose and fell like music played on unseen strings, a rhythm that made my skin prickle.

They greeted us—no, greeted him. Faces blurred as if veiled in mist, but their eyes shone with recognition, reverence. Some lifted their hands in blessing, others bowed their heads. I strained to focus on their features, but the more I tried, the less there was to see—only the glow of eyes, like lanterns in fog.

It was as if they had been waiting for him, as if I were the outsider.

Snatches of words drifted through the air like sparks: the circle is complete… the gate is near… he returns at last.

Excitement rippled through them, but in me, only dread. Something was ending, and I was powerless to stop it.

He looked at me as though he knew, as though he carried my grief with him. “We’ll have more time,” he promised, voice steady, eyes gentle. “Before I go.”

But time was slipping like sand, draining no matter how tightly I tried to hold it. “Why must you leave? Why must I stay behind?” My chest tightened until I could barely breathe.

He gave no answer, only pressed my hand harder in his.

The dream fractured. I woke with a start, clutching the pillow as though it might dissolve. Beside me, Victor’s breath rose and fell, steady as tidewater. My heart galloped with grief I could not name.

Again I slid back into dream.

He was tall, chestnut-haired, his eyes both kind and piercing. His voice low, measured, soothing—but beneath it ran sorrow, heavy and unspoken. He held my hand, his thumb tracing the line of my palm, a tenderness that ached with recognition. His presence filled me with joy, but loss clung to every moment, like a shadow cast before dawn.

I searched for his name, grasping at it as though it might save him from fading. Names of men I had known surfaced and fell away. None fit. Desperation rose, a fire in my ribs. He was slipping, dissolving into mist. I could not lose him. Why was he so important?

I woke to pins and needles in my arm. Victor stirred, turned toward me, and asked if I wanted to sleep close. Comfort was within reach, but I shook my head.

Again, twilight took me.

“I must let you go,” his voice came as if from beneath the earth, steady and final. His hands warmed my shoulders, my cheek pressed to his chest. Tears slipped free.

“Why must we be parted?” I whispered. He smiled—sadly. His eyes held a secret I was not permitted to know.

The dream shifted: a study in a great mansion. The air smelled of paper, wax, and extinguished flame. Shadows stretched across shelves of books that seemed to whisper as the firelight touched them. Tall windows were veiled with curtains heavy enough to choke the light.

Another presence was with us. A silhouette lingered in the corner, voice calm and clinical, like stone grinding on stone.

“It is necessary,” the figure said. “Your memories will be altered. To live a normal life, you must forget.”

My head shook violently in the dream. “No. I don’t want to forget. Not him.”

The voice was relentless. “It is not your time. When it is, you will remember.”

I turned to him—Bastian, the name clear now. His hands trembled against mine. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. The silence between us was unbearable, louder than any answer.

The books shuddered on their shelves. A clock ticked, then faltered, its hands sliding backward. The curtains stirred, though no wind passed through. Dust hung motionless in the air, glowing like trapped stars.

Something in the mansion breathed with us, listening.

I reached for him, but his form was unraveling. Smoke where flesh had been. I woke sobbing as Victor rolled out of bed. Morning broke.

I rose too, feet sinking into the carpet. In the kitchen, last night’s clutter greeted me. Lemon squares cooling on a plate, flour scattered across the counter like pale dust, dishes stacked precariously in the sink. Allisa and her brother had stayed up late baking, their laughter echoing faintly in my mind.

I began clearing, wiping down surfaces, restoring order. Through the window, the world seemed impossibly perfect. Rain polished the grass to emerald, each blade shining as though varnished. Doves pecked in neat rhythm, too synchronized to be natural. Their heads turned together, eyes glinting dark. Horses grazed beyond the fence, their coats slick and gleaming in the drizzle. Their heads rose and lowered as if on cue, mechanical as marionettes. Even the old dog, Sparky, sat statue-still, watching me with eyes that caught the light without blinking.

The view was postcard-perfect. Idyllic. Too idyllic.

My chest ached with longing.

Evan padded in, hair tousled. “Good morning, Mom.” His voice was bright, casual.

“Morning,” I said, forcing a smile. We spoke of the rain, of the animals, of his haircut overdue. His words were warm, ordinary. For a moment, they anchored me. Then he disappeared down the hall, leaving silence pressing at the edges again.

The stillness deepened. Even the rain seemed to fall in a pattern too regular, like beads strung on threads. My gaze fixed on the window, but my mind slipped elsewhere.

My mother’s laughter returned to me, years ago: “You were born in the wrong era.” I had told her I belonged in a simpler time, closer to Austen’s world. Or perhaps I belonged somewhere else entirely—where Bastian was.

I remembered another night, another conversation. Music on the car radio—Victor turning it up, smiling. “I love this song!” he said.

“I hate it,” I snapped. “It brings back bad memories.”

“That’s because you led a charmed life as a teenager,” I told him.

His grin had only widened. “I did have fun.”

The children had laughed, asking what kind of music I liked. “Big Band,” I’d said finally. “The forties. Simpler, more romantic. I would have been ignorantly happy then.”

My mother had agreed. Born in the wrong era.

Or maybe the wrong life altogether.

I closed my eyes and saw his face as vividly as if he stood just beyond the glass. Emerald eyes, framed by dark lashes. A sculpted jaw tightening as he spoke: All things will be set right.

But how?

The hours stretched. Sunlight slid across the tiles, each beam sharp and deliberate, as though the house itself had been staged. Too quiet. Too still. Too complete. Horses, children, husband, music—everything in place, perfectly arranged.

And yet, I kept seeing him. Feeling him.

Bastian—whose face should have dissolved at dawn, whose voice should have been only a dream.

Instead he lingered.

More real than the view before me. More real than the life I inhabited.

The rain slowed, drops falling one by one. For an instant, the glass caught my reflection—and his face overlapped mine, emerald eyes staring through the raindrops. His lips moved, words forming in silence. My breath fogged the pane, distorting his features until he seemed to smile and frown at once.

The glass quivered beneath my fingertips, cold as stone, though the room was warm.

I gasped, blinking. The image was gone. The lawn gleamed green, the doves pecked, the horses grazed, the dog did not move.

The silence pressed closer, as though the house itself was holding its breath.

Who was this man?

And who was I, without him?