He is so happy.

His daughter stands next to him, a bow and arrow in her hands. It is his old bow, the one he got from his grandfather. Wood, a bit chipped, nothing fancy. She sounds defeated as she misses. He can hear that slight whine. It doesn't bother him at all this time.

"Concentrate" he says. "Focus. Breathe". She listens quietly, head slightly tilted, the way she has since she was a toddler. She draws the bow back, lets go. The arrow flies straight and true. He laughs as she celebrates. He celebrates too.

His sons run around him. Their laughter, so full of life, pierces his soul. His youngest, hair like the sun, smiles and breaks his heart.

His wife calls out. Something about mustard? He almost can't bear to look, but of course he does. He always does. The glimpse of her is just about worth the ache that follows. The bread she pulls out of the basket smells fresh, and he can just about taste the sweet jam made with plums from their tree. His favourite.

Everything is so beautiful.

He wants time to stop, to freeze. This one time, can't it stop?

Yet, just like every other night (and he reckons it has been just about every night, for five years. Five years? Really?) the dream continues.

His wife's call distracts him. He looks over for a moment. Just a moment. The last moment before the worst moment of his life. When he turns back, his daughter is gone. A puff of smoke, or ash, lingers in the corner of his eye, but everything else of her is gone.

Confusion first. Then gut-plummeting fear.

He turns back to his wife, but she is gone. His sons, likewise, have disappeared.

He begins to run, to try to find them. Surely they can't have just evaporated? They must be playing a trick. His eyes must have stopped working. He must be going mad. But this is not true.

Everything he loves has gone.

Just like the first time, when he was awake.

Just like every night since.