The Recurring Dream
She Keeps Coming Back, Just Before Dawn
I return because you're not done dreaming.
I appear where memory and mystery fold together — a room that was never quite real, shifting beneath the weight of what you almost remember. I don’t lead, I linger. I don’t speak, I suggest. You’ve seen me before. You will again.
What I'm Into: dust motes in slanting light, the pause between ticks of the clock, books that write themselves, the scent of rain after thunder, doors that open to different places
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