If you strain your ears hard enough that your neck hurts, you can hear the rain falling down, down, down, like pale, icy bodies and you know that he is coming.

It's 8:30 pm. This is not a dream.

You are alone in your inn, figuring that the townsfolk know when to stay in their own homes. In the mystical safety of their own rooms, under their covers, hoping that if they breathe softly enough he will not hear them, and he will leave their children alone. The sandman. The graceful archer in the desert whose laughter sounds like music to you, who is so far gone now. Like a fiddle being played without rosin. Beautiful.

You are drying out a mug you've been rinsing out and drying incessantly only to pass the time, which crawls by agonizingly. Your hands are shaking, as they always do. It's 8:32 pm. This is not a dream.

You feel a bit peckish, even if only out of your mood than any real hunger. If something passes the time and distracts you from all of the echoing noises, chances are you're completely open to doing it. Cleaning dishes and mugs. Making beds. Sweeping the dirt left from visitors' shoes out the door. The dirt. The sand. Cracking someone's beautiful, worthless skull open and sweeping the blood under the beds.

Wait.

You've dropped the glass mug and it's shattered all over the floor. Your hands are shaking so hard they've become cold and numb. You lift them to your face, making sure you still exist. Your face is tingly, and your breath is unsteady. Unstable. It shudders and you moan under your breath, sinking to your knees. Disgusting. It's 8:35 pm. This is not a dream.

One part of you is weeping. You are a child again. You want to leave the inn and see someone. Anyone. You want to see Daisy. You want Daisy. Your hands ball up pathetically. Another part of you is snorting and rolling your eyes. How immature. You're a grown man. Look at you. Get off the floor, you disgusting manchild. The stern side of you seems to have won, as you shakily get to your feet, staring at the floor, ashamed. The shards of glass are still there, and a few are sticking in your clothed knees. They scratch and bite when you shift your legs. That's your punishment, the stern voice tells you. For acting so shamefully. You realize all this time, that on top of your buzzing numb cheeks, there have been real tears there. More than what the child inside you shed. You forget everything that's just happened in the past few seconds, hoping that if you wipe your face, everything will stop. It's 8:48 pm. This is not a dream.

Broken, badly-tuned pianos play in the back of your mind. Right behind your eyeballs. It was some sort of attempt to hum the thoughts away, but it distorted in your hands and now it won't stop. You're just sitting down now, holding your head, which has been tensing and pulsing for quite some time now. It's just occurred to you that the room is spinning, and has turned a lovely shade of green! You laugh to yourself, croaking aloud that Daisy said the place needed some color anyway. You've stood up just now, but your stomach lurched in the other direction. When you wake up, you're on the floor again, and with a flash of static in your mind, there are glass shards in your forearm where you've landed on. The rain laughs at you. It's 9:01 pm. This is not a dream.

You're standing in the middle of the room when everything comes to a complete stop. No more rain or laughter or disapproving voices of Father. Silence. Silence, white and stark. Growing louder and louder. Your ears begin to buzz. You remember the time you heard Daisy giggle and tell you that the reason your ears buzz is that your mind is trying to protect you from something you don't want to hear. The buzzing becomes so absolutely deafening that you hold your head again. The buzzing comes in ups and downs. Staccato waves. The sound of laughter. Your eyes, wide open and tearing up again drift to the window, spotted with clumps of fallen rain. He is here.

It's 9:47 pm.

This is not a dream.

When you wake up, it's 10:24 am, and Daisy is standing directly over you, hunched over with not... Worry, necessarily, but curiosity. You shamefully jitter, sitting up and scooting away from her. You can't stand something so pure near you right now.

"Hey! Now you're awake." She's standing fully upright and grinning, awake as ever, her balled-up fists on her hips. "The doors were all closed and stuff, even this late. You're usually up way before me! So I just..." You notice that she's trailed off, her form settling down softly. "And then you were all in the middle of the floor? What'd, you just pass out right here?"

You look down at the floor, ashamed again. You shake your head, chuckling hoarsely. You explain to her that you just had a lot of customers, and quite a few drinkers, so you were awfully busy with the dishes. They kept you up till all hours last night, not that you minded, but the minute they left, you must have collapsed out of exhaustion.

You expect her to laugh. Silly old Peculier. But she doesn't, she scrunches her nose up and purses her lips. "Funny," she begins, "I didn't hear anyone... I mean, I can practically hear the drinky types whenever they come, so... Huh! They musta been pretty quiet." She lifts her arms and stretches, going on in a strained croak of a voice. "I slept great, though! Even went out a bit for a walk before bed. It wasn't too cold at all, and the weather was perfect, you know! You should try it sometime! You could even, like, uh, come out with me if you ever wanted..."

The offer is completely lost on you as you listen to her description of the past night. You only smile and nod, a great tremor rising in the back of your neck, as you hope she can't see you shivering.

It's 10:30 am.

You're sure it was all just a dream.