Otatso Wetlands When I get low I prefer the cold

She was alone, and then she was not; then there was a voice, a presence, but she couldn't quite focus. Who...? Reverie could only blink in the general direction of the sound, utterly confused. What... It came out a whisper. What's happening? Where am I? Her own voice sounded as far away as the world looked and felt and seemed. She wasn't addressing him, not really; she didn't even know if he was real. Was he...?
Reverie looked at him and found him too bright, too blurry, which was odd. His fur was dark, wasn't it? Dark but limned, sharp with the kind of light that burned into your vision and left its ghost lingering. No, he wasn't real. Couldn't be. Nothing so beautiful could be real.