18
Wilt remembered nothing else from that night. He’d clearly made it safely back to his room, for that was where he found himself when he woke, but there was no trail left in his mind to prove he had made the journey. Instead, broken images had haunted his dreams, slices of another life. His small hands crafted a figurine, shaped its flowing lines and whispered words of power into it. Words he did not understand, did not even know. Still he spoke them.
He felt a pull from the dream, as though it wanted to suck him into it, join with it completely and let its views become his own. For a moment he was tempted, then his gaze returned to the surface and the vision burnt away.
The early morning sun was streaming in through the still open window, and Wilt allowed himself to stare out at the
