The grey city was quiet.
They sat on the low wall at the edge of the city. The fog had pulled back again. The buildings stood sharp.
She was looking at his face—the grey-blue of his eyes, the small scar on his chin.
“Are you real?” she asked.
He turned to look at her. “What?”
“Real. Not a dream. Not something my mind made up.” She paused. “Are you a real person? Somewhere?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“If I weren't real,” he said slowly, “why would you be afraid of losing me?”
She stared at him.
“You're afraid,” he said. “Every night, when the dream starts to fade, you hold on tighter. You're afraid that one night I won't be here.”
She looked down at her hands.
“I am afraid,” she said. “Every night. When the dream starts to break, I'm afraid it's the last time.”
“And if I were j
