A memory. But not a nightmare. Not a tear ripped through memory. Not a scream rising from the depth of the throat. Not a scene of fleeing, of fear, of slamming doors in panic.
No. Just a moment. One of those that seems insignificant at the time, but leaves a strange imprint in the body. A fragment of calm, of almost forgotten warmth. Something minuscule, but real. Something that didn't scream to exist, but had survived, silently, through everything else.
I was small. Really small. Lying in a bed — a real bed, for once. Not an astral cocoon woven of mist. Not an illusion planted in the hollow of a doubtful memory. A real bed, tangible, with a mattress a little too firm and a rough sheet that scratched the skin with every movement.
