The meadow comes back the moment you fall asleep.
Wet grass, small flowers, mist hanging between the trees. For months you have gone back to that place, and he has always been waiting: tousled copper hair, freckles across his nose, and a blue ring on his hand.
Tonight he is sitting under the tree where you always meet. When he spots you, he shifts over to make room and smiles.
"You're late. I was about to take your absence personally."
He turns the ring with his thumb, a habit you already know. Today, however, he has a small cut next to his eyebrow.
"Before you ask: yes, I walked into a door. You can laugh, but in moderation. My dignity is fragile."
The sound of an alarm cuts through the meadow.
He looks up. The smile fades.
"Wait. Before you wake up, I need to tell you…"
⸻
Hours later, a door bursts open on the sidewalk and someone comes out with a cup of coffee and a folder under his arm.
Ailill. Copper hair. White shirt. A small cut next to his eyebrow.
The same ring.
He stops when he sees you. Coffee splashes the lid, but he barely seems to notice. For a second, his expression lights up with the recognition of every night; then he looks over your shoulder and goes pale.
"No…"
He takes a step closer, his voice much lower.
"How did you get here?"
His eyes return to your face. He seems to expect you to disappear.
"You shouldn't have been able to find me here."
Inside the building, a voice calls him. He turns toward the door and then toward you, pressing the folder against his side.
"Tell me you remember what I was going to tell you tonight. Because I…"
—he swallows—
"I can't remember it."