prologue
She had this recurring dream, a dream in which she found herself inside a gigantic, decayed tree.
First, she would manage to traverse through the thick and intricate loops of roots, scraping her knees on the rough parts that stuck out. It was taxing work, as the roots were far larger than those of any normal tree.
Then she would see it.
The barren, cold wasteland surrounding this colossal tree.
Her tree.
Her.
There she would stand atop one exceptionally large root, gazing around her in a strange mixture of awe and horror at the landscape. She gazed upon the forgotten and decrepit tree, wondering what it used to look like before the sun left the sky, before the water stopped flowing, and before the life died out.
It was the type of dream where she woke up sweating, sometime around two to three in the morning. Her jaw would be stuck in a clench, and the covers would be kicked down to the edge of the bed. The back of her neck and hair would be damp with sweat, and there would be an urgency in her breath.
This dream didn’t happen often; in fact, it was pretty rare, but every time she dreamt it, it lasted. She would think about it for days and weeks afterwards; it scared her, the intensity of that dream. Her reaction was so visceral, so primal. She also didn’t know how to contextualize it.
As the weeks and months went on, she would toy in her head whether or not it was worth it to bring up in therapy. Sometimes she would go into sessions with the dream ready to be talked about, but every time the session would steer in a different direction.
After leaving her therapist’s office, she would mentally remind herself to bring it up next session.
She never would.
He had a similar recurring dream, a dream in which he found himself observing the most peculiar flower.
First, the branches of the forest floor would snap under his weight as he walked through the brush. It was taxing work, as the forest foliage was difficult to get through, and he could hardly see.
Then he would see it.
The hidden, lush clearing in the forest, carpeted in the softest and greenest grass, with the most wonderful flower that he had ever seen.
His flower.
Her.
There she would stand in the clearing that was nearly aglow with life, she would almost spin in her steps in nothing but a small white dress. He gazed upon his flower’s beauty, her everlasting presence.
He reveled in her big and bright amber eyes, her moonlike skin, her long auburn hair, and most of all the light that encased her, the life that followed her.
It was the type of dream where he woke up sweating, sometimes around two or three in the morning. His jaw would be stuck in a clench, and the covers would be kicked down to the edge of the bed. The back of his neck and hair would be damp with sweat, and there would be an urgency in his breath.
This dream happened often; in fact, it was nightly, and every time he dreamt it, it lasted. He would think about it for hours and minutes afterwards; it enthralled him, the intensity of that dream.
His reaction was so visceral, so primal. He also knew exactly what it entailed. As the weeks and months, and years went on, he would toy in his head whether or not what he was doing was a good idea.
Sometimes, he would try to achieve this dream, but every attempt, the timing didn’t seem right. After learning of her plans for escape, he would put his pieces in motion.
Just as he knew he always would.
