Hey guys! I was driving around the city when I saw a father with his blond little girl holding tightly to his hand as they walked around the street. He kept pointing at stuff for her to see and immediately I thought Of Charming and little Emma, so I had to write this thing. I hope you enjoy!
In the dream, she's eight years old and holding his hand tightly. They're walking down the main garden of the palace and her eyes look around her curiously. "Daddy," she starts, "Why is the pond blue if the water's transparent?"
He looks down at her with a smile. His daughter was always the curious one. He babbles a short explanation about the sky and reflections, smiling when she waves at a passing guard who bows his head in her direction.
"Daddy," she says again, "how come the roses here are white, but in that bush over there they're red? And why are the birds singing in the morning?" He stifles a laugh at the eagerness in her voice and tries to keep up with her questions as they turn and walk back in the direction of the palace. They need to make it back in time for lunch.
A guard bows his head when they enter and she asks again. "Daddy, why was I born a princess and he was born a knight?"
"I don't know baby. But I think it's time to stop asking questions and occupy your mouth with eating instead". And she nods happily, glad to hear that there's food involved. Always his hungry Emma.
David's eyes opened suddenly, only to be welcomed into the dark loft. A quick glance at his bedside table proved that it was the middle of the night. With a sigh, he got out of bed and walked to the kitchen,
It was the third time in a row dreaming of a world that could have been, and he had no idea why. Emma kept showing up in his dreams, young and happy. His eyes travelled up the stairs to where he knew his daughter and grandson slept peacefully, and he turned to start the pot. Maybe some tea would help him go back to sleep.
Just as he was about to start the pot, a voice behind him spoke. "Make that two".
He turned around to find his daughter smiling at him. She must have inherited her mother's bandit skills; because he was sure she wasn't there a second ago. He gave her a nod and turned to press the boiling button. "Why are you up?"
She shrugged before realising he couldn't see her. "It's too quiet? I guess I just got used to having so much to do around here that having a short break actually kills me".
He turned around and smirked. "I could always kidnap you and lock you in a tower, see who is willing to save the princess," he joked, placing two teabags in the mugs in front of him.
"Ha ha," she mocked, rolling her eyes at him. He was such a dad sometimes. "Why are you up?"
And, did he tell her? Did he tell her that her younger self haunted his dreams? That for some unknown reason he kept seeing the young princess she should have been? The whistle of the pot brought him back to reality and he turned to pour the water, using that time to gather up the courage to tell her.
"Dad?" she asked when he didn't turn around, and he had to wince because she sounded so worried. But her words touched him. They reminded him that yes, he was her dad, no matter if she was eight or eighty, and he shouldn't be afraid of talking to her.
"I dreamt about you," he smiled weakly, and a blush crept to her cheeks. "You were eight".
"Was it… was it a nightmare?" she stammered, and he wanted to kick himself for not phrasing it right.
"Not at all," he reassured her, pushing her tea in her direction. "We were walking about in the palace's main garden and you were asking questions about the water, and the flowers. It was wonderful".
His voice broke at last two words and he could see in her eyes that she realised why such a good dream ended up hurting him so much. A small smile tugged at her lips and her hand caught his for a short moment.
"You know it's no use to keep think of what could have been".
"Of what should have been," he corrected, but yes, he knew that well enough. "I can't help my dreams. I'm happy to have you here and now Emma, don't get me wrong, it's just…"
And she knew exactly what was on his mind, but she said nothing at all. She knew she had to let him come to terms with what was happening if he wanted to be able to go back to sleep.
"You were just so beautiful and tiny," he whispered finally, "and you called me Daddy. You looked at me like I personally hung the sun, and you trusted me to give you the answers to all your questions".
She wasn't looking at him at that point. Her eyes focused on her hands as they played with the tea-bag's label, bumping it from finger to finger. And then suddenly her eyes lifted and she looked deeply into his when she spoke. "You didn't personally hang it?"
He chuckled at her joke, and his eyes softened a bit. "I'm not eight," she continued, and he nodded because, well, of course she wasn't. "But I still trust you to give me all the answers to my questions. I still trust that you have a lot to teach me".
She hoped she didn't create a mushy moment between them with her words, but deep inside she knew she did. He got up and wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling her head, and she felt proud. Proud that she could call this amazing man her dad, proud that she succeeded in making him feel slightly better.
"Come on, old man," she mumbled into his neck, "I'll take care of the tea. You go back to sleep before little bro here decides it's morning". She backed a bit and picked up the two half full mugs of tea that had long since gotten cold. "Good night Dad".
"Good night Emma," he whispered, turning to go back to bed, "and thank you".
Tell me what you think?