In his dreams, everything is alive and vibrant. The colors are so bright and saturated he finds himself unable to focus on any one thing. Movement occurs all around him; foliage of trees and brush rustle to and fro like ruffled petticoats.
In his dreams, Satine is lit in ethereal blues, light gleaming off her diamond skin. She comes alive at night, and it seems not so different from her life before.
Christian fears he has summoned her from her rest. Conjured her spirit from wherever it resided with his writing, taking her peace from her for a while longer. In the waking hours, it haunts him.
For days, his typewriter has remained untouched. His notebook bears no new marks of pen or pencil to its pages. His terrifying realization has frozen all output. Satine had wished to be free of her underworld home. Yet here he is, placing her right back into it after she had gained freedom.
He switches from absinthe to wine, taking every precaution to keep Satine from becoming a spectre in the living hours. It lulls him to sleep faster than before, an unintended consequence.
Somewhere between a deathly sleep and awakeness, he finds her in his bed.
Hair spreads like fire against the ivory pillowcase. Her eyes, as blue and clear as they have ever been, watch him intently. Christian feels his breath dissipating in his lungs. He lies still, afraid any movement may whisk her away.
"Will you read to me?" comes her voice.
He hesitates to answer for a beat. "Read what, Satine?"
"You've been writing so much as of late," she says, voice lilting and bright. "I want to hear it. You always have a way of making it come alive in your voice."
He has no choice but to oblige and humor her. Christian picks up his notebook from the bedside table. Thumbs through, eyebrows knotting in confusion. All his words are nothing but illegible squiggles on the page.
He reads it anyway. Finds the meaning somewhere in the glyphs.
In his voice, a story weaves itself in total saturation, moments crashing like cymbals. Every last word is important, all the textures and boundless energy a movement in a much larger symphony. He hears Satine's laughter at his dry humor. Hears her sigh at the overwhelming sadness that tinges his asides, his foreshadowing to their end. It takes him back to drafting Spectacular Spectacular! and the lazy mornings Satine would give minor critiques and edits.
Christian sets down his notebook. A moment passes, and he looks at the lovely being on his bed, draped in her cream kimono. The silk has lay under a stack of clumsily folded pants in his chest of drawers for months. Now, it seems to sit upon its rightful place again. Too perfect. Too pulled from loving memories past.
"This is a dream," he finally says.
Satine sits up. Leans over him, thumb rubbing his more hollow cheeks.
"If it is a dream," she replies in her breathy way, "then it is a good dream."
It takes everything in Christian to not sob as she kisses his face. Her confirmation was not something he had wanted, but now knew to be true.
Whether she is a spirit or a thing of his subconscious, Satine holds him to give some comfort. A sense of relief washes over him. Satine has not completely faded away, still knowing how to lift him from strife when he needs her to.
If only he could have done it for her for longer.
"You'll be gone when I wake," Christian says, voice wavering. "I can't bear it. Let me stay with you."
"Keep dreaming, Christian," Satine says. Kisses him again on the forehead, her smile apparent through her touch. "Dream, and let your dreams find reality in your story. Find me in dreams, and in the morning, you'll find me on paper, too."
Their bodies lay in silence; Christian is bent on holding onto every moment. It seems to last a lifetime, this dream, and yet it slowly dissipates into hazy smoke as the birds chirp and light filters into his garrett.
He wakes, and his bed lies cold on the side Satine once was.