“Desdemona…”
Aiyana heard his voice clear as day calling her. That same deep voice she heard every morning calling her Ms. Grey. Always Ms. Grey, never Aiyana. But, today his voice sounded urgent. She looked around, gathering in her surroundings to find out that she was in the woods wearing a Grecian toga.
The wind blew at her hair like a caress carrying with it his voice.
“Come to me Desdemona, before all is lost...”
And suddenly the trees cleared a path. And there he stood at the end of it. His eyes held despair of a man that had been defeated and yet they held hope. Hope that she would not betray him. That she would stay and save him.
He held out his hand that was laced with black tendrils, as was his whole body. As if darkness had begun to encompass him and eat his soul. Holding
