It is in the darkest hours, those just before dawn, before waking, that the dreams he would rather not ask for come.

These are the dreams he always remembers. These are the dreams of things he’s not quite certain he’s forgotten.

How she laughed, her face pressed up against the smooth glass of a window, scrunched and wrinkled, that time she had him stand in the park at night with his eyes closed and promise not to open them. A memory of her in wings, looking like a street corner angel, dreams of how her hair smelled and how she would clench and unclench her fists when angry. The appendix scar that she referred to in a funny way, how she had funny names for everything. Socks on her hands, the long silver and green earrings.

Hundreds of blurred images in dreams.

The alarm beeps, quieter at first, then louder and louder, a throbbing interruption in his ear and for a long while he isn’t sure if it is him beeping, ready to explode or something else. Whatever it is, it evaporates the instant he slams his palm against the clock, and for a moment he just lays there.

A slow, soft brush of a hand across his cheek. A gentle kiss. His heart accelerates, and he slowly opens an eye, peering the direction of the touches. It’s her, staring at him, half-clad in a too big shirt and socks that don’t match, but he’s certain they never did.

“I’m already gone,” she says, smiling at him and brushing the hair from his eyes.

And she’s right.