Fragment .01

Freya hasn't dreamt much since she's been Here.

Her bedside is perched by the window. There's not much of a view during the day, save the waxed green fanning of the magnolia tree and the occasional bird that flits from branch to branch. But there is something soothing about the night, when the row of glowing windows fade one by one, like rectangular shooting stars being swallowed by the dark.

You could spend days and nights memorizing the angles and lines of a person's face in a dozen photographs and yet never truly see the person. For some people, it's the eyes or the hands that becomes the imprinted ID to connect a name and a face. Yes, she had the deepest and warmest almond eyes -- or, he had the most elegant fingers and yet the most promising handshake.

For Freya, it has always been the voice. She never truly met a person until she heard her name spoken from his lips. She thought about her inglorious encounter with Lennox for the briefest second and then drowsed off to sleep with her copy of Antigone in hand.

That night she dreamt. She can't remember what she dreamt of anymore. All she knows is that when she woke up this morning, she was still crying.