A/N: Very short, I know. But it's my favorite way to write.
Robin only dreamed of sand.
The soft ground of the forest, black and rich, dried out and blanched. Sand, only sand.
The trees dissolved, the horizon widened, the sun grew hot, blinding and painful, like it only lived to burn him.
And the sand. He sank into it, slipping as it moved, as mounds and valleys appeared and disappeared, wave upon wave.
He dug his hands in. He was calmed by the cooler sand beneath the surface. Sifting through it desperately, he tried to find an opening, but every grain he moved aside was replaced by another.
There was no way to get to his wife.
If he could only be with her.
If he could only get past the sand and into the earth where she lay.
But the sand was unrelenting.
He always woke up thirsty.