I see the mirror glass, but it’s not my room on the other side; there’s rampant, swirling fog. And her. This must be the dream. I’ve been here before. The same eyes, the flaming hair, her voice calls the same angelic words as before. But I don’t know them. Are they a warning, or a blessing?
“Cursum Perficio,” she says.
My heart pounds its response and I catch myself not breathing. It’s impossible not to oscitate—I’m transfixed.
I mouth the words with her. Who is she? What is the meaning of this synchronicity? As I ponder, she beckons to me. The fog changes from gray to crimson in a brilliant miasma of warning while her words envelop the space.
I lean close and draw a breath. Then I reach to touch the glass, to break the lacuna between my wanting and her.
“Please,” I whisper. “This is perfect.”
I interrupt. “Please.”
Brilliant light blinds my vision, forcing me back. I collapse on the bed and close my eyes. I sleep. When I awake, the dream is gone. I am alone again.
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