better an oops than a what if

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He hadn't recalled sleeping. Frankly, since he'd uncovered the silvered woman within the water, he had not recalled much of anything. The sight of her, petrified and sopping wet, was an image he didn't think he would forget. Didn't think he could.

But even as he slept, even as dreams danced languidly across his vision, it was not a look of terror that he saw. It was entirely the opposite, a view spun with sparkling silk as it glimmered beneath a sauntering sun.

And saunter it did, as it swept in time with the goad of dusk, trickling from flourishing yellows and soft oranges to deep blues and gentle violets. And as day fled amidst his overwhelming subconscious, Santiago remained—ever still as the grass tickled his toes, watching. Waiting.

A whisper of a dream on the horizon. What could've been, what would be, what shouldn't. A dream deeper than the sleep that captivated him, construing thoughts and feelings otherwise buried within when he was awake. Conjuring a woman, a wolf—an animal—was one of the stranger things he'd dreamt.

Nevertheless, they were there, sprawled upon the plush grass, content and whole. And he ruined it, casting a shadow over her head as he moved to stand above her.

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