As the wind blew through the trees, the old woman leaned against my shoulder and whispered into my ear, “Guard your heart against the Season of Mist.”

Twenty years on, and I still haven’t a clue of what she meant. I wish I did.

I wish I understood why the crows follow me in their packs as I walk home at night. Or why cats never dare cross my path. I want to know why Emma LaFrainge cried after kissing me after the winter dance. Why the embers of an old fire seem to speak to my heart without words I can hear.

What I want most is to understand how the essence of dreams seems to mold in my hands— cutting with ease as if I were some clawed beast. Joining desperate ends in functional form as I impersonate an amateur tailor. I want to know the name of the woman that walked through my dreams. The one that broke the fragile belief that I was alone within them. I would know her name— the Lady of Mist and Shadow. The Dream Walker.

When the late summer wind blows across the hills, it sweeps under my heart with a cosmic weight. I feel at once calm and wary— as I am aware that not only peaceful things ride atop the wind. There is silence beyond the sound of the breeze. An obfuscation of reality as little dapples of magic bend around my sight. She walks beyond these winds— her truth is hidden amongst gales and moonlight. I want to beg for certainty— but I know that is a dark request. She has granted lesser whims— but the truth remains out of reach.