Author's Note: Another update for everyone. It's long overdue, for which, I apologize. I wanted to get several chapters done before posting more. Which I accomplished. I hope you guys like this chapter. I took a long time just sitting there, reading it over and over. Just...because.

Thanks to all of you who review, favorite/alert, and read. You're all awesome. I also love hearing all your theories and thoughts on the story. They're a lot of fun to read. And most of you have noticed, if you give me theories or review, I will usually PM you and talk with you and give you hints on things... So if you want hints, gotta give to get ;)

Now, please enjoy and then leave a review!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own plot and any characters I make up.

The mind was a curious thing.

Full of mysteries that most people couldn't begin to fathom.

The dark corners hid shadows and secrets like a maze and it would take humanity several lifetimes to discover just half.

So the moment Yusuf realized he was dreaming, his first thought was that he was impressed. The world his subconscious had devised was a wonder. Simple, but it spoke volumes. And ever the scholar that he was, instead of killing himself to wake up, he let his mind continue to cultivate the dreamscape.

A long, dimply lit hallway, crafted with rich, dark wood. Painted with burgundies and reds so deep, light could not escape.

Yusuf was presented with three doors, behind him, endless night leading to only God would know. A door on each of his sides and one in front, blocking his path. Heavy knockers and brass knobs adorned the carved wood. They seemed to resonate with promises and hushed secrets, like fingers of energy beckoning him.

Unsure of what he was trying to tell himself, he glided his fingers along the grooves of the left door. They were met with satin polish and slick perspiration. It groaned with the faint pressure his fingers exerted on it. A large drop of water slid down smoothly past his head, quickly making it to the bottom.

Based on what he'd been hearing, he was expecting more. Something baser. His mind wasn't a source of theatrics.

Usually.

The door opened easily, but not without a great deal of creaking, rust flaking off the hinges and into his hair. But he barely noticed. The room behind the first door was sweltering. Like August in New York City, like Mombasa. Like home. The air was thick, nearly suffocating. Immediately he found himself sweating and peeling his heavy jacket off. Dragging it along the ground, Yusuf found himself in front of a clear tank.

A body floating ethereally inside.

With the water so clear and clean, nearly invisible. It was almost as if she was hovering. Floating like a specter or angel. His angel.

His Mahira.

He just stood there, staring. Watching the water caress her, slowly moving and turning her body with the undercurrents.

Her face was a mask of accusation and hurt. Her eyes, when she turned and faced him, were blank. But also would flash with anger.

And just as the day she died, the remnants of her summer dress, frayed and stained, ripped and scrappy, hung on her bruised frame.

Yusuf's ears filled with crashing waves and the overwhelming roar of boat motors. Gulping, he choked back a sob, the waves crashing louder, pierced with slick gun shots.

The air around him closed over him like a vice, constricting painfully around his lungs and heart. His eyes pricked painfully with tears. And like a fist of her resentment, he could feel a shove. Pressure sending him back to the soaking door. Roughly, he was pushed back against it, drenching him. The water running down the wood faster as his heart rate picked up.

Turning around, Yusuf clawed at the door, desperate to escape the rounds of fire and drowning waves. If he stayed in this room much longer, he felt as if she would crawl out of the tank and cling to him, taking him back with her into the waters. Under the running water, he was able to find the doorknob and quickly turned it, throwing the door open with a shove into the hall. Behind him, the door closed with a thud.

Bloody hell, he thought. His subconscious was more of a masochist than he'd thought. Oh, Mahira.

Oh his knees, he stayed in the dismal hallway for an unmeasurable amount of time.

Staring.

Waiting.

For his heart to slow down.

For his breathing to even out.

For his mind to stop racing and whirling.

And for her ghost to stop seeping into his spine.

He doubted the fear that bubbled in his stomach would ever settle. Only grow and slowly become infested with a dank foreboding.

Gathering his courage, he stood and shuffled to the center door. Ice cold. Though it was made of wood, it felt like it was of steel, standing for centuries in the arctic. His fingertips tingled and became numb almost immediately on contact. Despite its frozen appearance, it was silent and smooth upon opening.

The room was empty.

Black, only lit by the light from the hallway.

The walls were close together, more resembling a closet, especially compared to the cavernous void that held his Mahira. He dared to only take a single step in; he didn't want the door to close and to lose the light.

Even though the room was shallow, it was almost as if the light chased away the impeding shadows. Like complete darkness meant it would all turn into a black hole, a vacuum of endless power. Not only was it empty of light or space, it seemed to suck up sound. He couldn't even hear his breathing, still slightly shallow. Or his pulse, which had been thrumming in his head.

Immediately he turned around and left, slamming the door.

A sound like thousands of shattering mirrors echoed in the hall.

The final door hummed.

It stood looming over him as he faced the corner, dreading to come face to face with it. If Mahira was to his left, then...

She was on his right.

Just as it should be.

He always said.

He palmed the knob and instantly pulled his hand back. Searing hot, it left blisters on his skin. Short of stripping, he had nothing he could protect his hand against the red-hot metal, so he quickly gripped it and threw the door open, letting it bang against whatever wall the room held.

The basement to his home, to his chemist laboratory. But the beds were empty, like their occupants had moved on. To the next life or in their lives on earth. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

His footsteps echoed, harsh in his ears compared to the nothingness of the last room.

The bed in the very back, partitioned away from the others by a curtain still had its occupant. Who stared up at Yusuf, watching him as he walked closer to her. The needle in her arm was still anchored in, the PASIV running, pumping sedative in her veins.

And she still stared.

"Saira."

His little girl stared at him with her mother's eyes, blinking when he said her name. She licked her lips and let out a deep breath. Turned her head away from him.

Feeling like his heart had dropped in his chest, he watched her breathing slow down, to the rate of a sleeper.

Like how he always saw her.

Her hand reached out for him. To which he eagerly took, startled by her strength as she pulled him closer to her bed. A little girl of her eight years could not have this kind of strength. Her fingers curled around his, digging into the skin. The other shot out from her side and pinned him with the PASIV needle.

The haziness of dreaming started clouding his eyes. And he was terrified of the dream she wanted to share with him. He knew exactly what it would be.

All three of them on their small boat in the ocean. A family vacation. Mahira, beautiful in the sunlight with her new summer dress and six-year-old Saira running about with her kite, giggling. Innocent.

They were happy.

And then they caught up to him, despite the arrogant extractor's promise to make sure he was 'safe from the mark.'

Safe indeed.

A motor boat in the distance gaining speed.

Saira's shriek as she lost her toy in surprise.

Gunfire. So many at once, showering down on them. Like a firing squad in the waves.

Mahira scrambling to protect their daughter, screaming for her to come to her quickly, now!

Saira falling to the deck, hit by a bullet in her shoulder, crying for her papa. Papa, please!

Because she was determined to get to Saira, the bullets shredded through Mahira, tearing her clothes to pieces and disfiguring her once perfect skin.

Yusuf could feel the two bullets hit his legs, making him buckle. All over again. The ghosts that haunted him most days real once more.

And he could do nothing but watch as his wife's body tipped into the salty ocean, staining the blue water with her spilled blood. The speedboats left, leaving behind a ripped silence, punctured by Saira's crying and his panting. All he could do was try to crawl to his daughter and wait.

He knew the police would be there any moment.

Too late. Just like before.

Saira looked up at him. With the eyes not of that day, but of the present. Jaded, knowing.

Because by the time they'd recovered and left the hospital, just the two of them, she knew so much more. She didn't understand it all, but she knew that, in the end, it had all taken away her mother. And that her papa was to blame.

And Saira made him live through those first nights after they came home as they shared her dream. The nights where she screamed in horror instead of sleeping. The days where she sat in a chair, staring at nothing, eyes wide. She would throw fits when he came to talk to her, to hug her, comfort her. She wanted nothing to do with him, with life.

Then he decided to take her to his workshop.

To the room with the others who lived disconnected from reality and made their own, together. He showed her the silver briefcase and explained what it did. Told her, if she wanted, she could sleep. Live in a world where her mother was still there, if she wished. Where things were the way they'd once been.

"I'd prefer if you stayed with me. I love you very much, Saira. But I want you to be happy. I will do whatever you want, as long as you are happy." He held her hand tight. The only contact she really allowed him. And only when they left the house.

He stood with her as she stared at the machine for minutes upon minutes. Longer than any child would have had the patience for. He could practically hear the jumbled thoughts clicking into place for her.

When she started crying, he knew the choice she'd made.

And for the first time in nearly eight months, she hugged him, held him close.

Crawled into the bed, waited.

As he hooked her up and checked the correct dosage, she whispered,

"Can I come back to you, papa? If... If I miss you?"

Yusuf wiped away a tear that got caught in his eyelashes. "Always, my love." He kissed her cheek and stroked the top of her head. He held her hand as the sedative slowly started to take effect. Keeping his eyes locked on hers as they fluttered shut.

And Saira ripped the needle from him painfully.

Falling over, Yusuf panted as he came out of the dream, tears falling onto the dirty floor under him. He wept hard for the first time in months. He sincerely hoped Saira didn't truly dream of her mother's death. No child should dream of that for decades at a time.

He meant for her to dream of her mother, growing up with her, just as it should have been.

Now he wanted out.

Out of this dream and back to reality. He needed to visit his daughter. He needed reality.

Standing, he glanced at Saira, who was back to watching him with wide eyes. He wouldn't do it here. Even if this wasn't really her. He'd hurt her enough once, just once. Even Dream Saira deserved more.

So he left the room with its door made of the walls of Hell and walked back to the door made of angel's tears.

It was always how he thought their tears would be like. Ice cold. Because angels shouldn't really be crying, and to make them cry was a sin.

He opened it, and walked into the black unknown, waiting for the drop off, the kick, the slaughter, the suffocation. Whatever awaited him.

– –

When he woke up, he fell from his chair.

And wept just like he had at Saira's side.

He'd done so many things, was afraid of so much more.

Yet, he chose to torture himself with things that could not be changed. Of course his mind would not pick on the present or future. Only the past, set and locked for all eternity.

So when he took up his ring of keys, shuffled down the steps, he surprised the watchman by going to the very back. But the man never said anything, just cast a pitying glance and went back to his papers.

Yusuf pulled the curtain back and stared down at her. His little girl.

Who was awake and pulling out the needle from her hand.

"Papa?"

A/N: Well, another nightmare down. What's to come? Who knows! Leave a review and we'll chat! ;)

Story recommendation is Iris by EloraCooper4! (Great story!)