"Every night," John gasped into the still air, coldness seeping into his body from where he knelt on the unforgiving floorboards of his bedroom.
He blinked furiously as his mind struggled to rein in his racing heart. It beat against all logic, everything he had known to be true for the past three years.
Proof of this- dream number 1095 remained swirling in his head (this time he began on the ground, but in the next moment, on a rooftop reaching for a pale white hand, grasping, seizing, and pulling an arm, a torso, a brilliant head back to him, those hands cradling his face and please never let it end please I need you here with me).
John's features, concealed in the dark room, twisted in agony. His breaths came in sharp and uneven heaves; he stubbornly ignored the wetness on his cheeks.
"Every night," John remembered so much, even now thought of the violin and experiments and dead, dead grey eyes, "Every night I save you."