At twenty-one, Dolores is far too old for nightmares. Rough nights? Maybe. Bad dreams? Occasionally.

But not nightmares. She's practically grown up, so screaming herself awake can't be a thing anymore. Then why is she sitting bolt upright in the middle of her bed, tears on her cheeks? Why can't she get a hold of herself, get a grip on the images that won't leave her be?

Because this is not a new nightmare. In fact, it's a very old one – one she hasn't had since she was eleven.

It plays itself out, over and over again, until her heartbeat becomes deafening, and she needs to leave her room.

It's very late – or very early – and the house is still asleep. Not even Tía Julieta is awake yet but it doesn't matter because she doesn't want her tía's company. She doesn't want anyone's company.

Except...that she does.

She wants his company. She's wanted to be held by him a lot over the past ten years, to press her face into clothes that smell of smoke, to have thin, wiry arms closing awkwardly around a niece who's outgrown him.

She wants her tío.

She wants him to come home, to really be home. She doesn't know why he left but she can take a guess as to why he never came back. He's heard far too much over the last decade, probably as much as she has, from his hiding place.

We don't talk about Bruno.

He never cared for the family.

He's a coward – how could he run?

She's known about his bolt-hole for years, and she's had to pretend she doesn't, for his sake, for her own.

But tonight, she's going to stop pretending, because if she's too old for nightmares, she's certainly too old to pretend.

The dining room is quiet, more insulated than other rooms she could haunt. It's a warm night, even for May, and she pulls her hair around one shoulder, braiding it to give her hands something to do. She looks up at the family tree, all but one of the faces gazing benignly out at her. A decade of neglect has nearly erased her uncle. Even so, his eyes are still kind, his dark curls still wild, and he's still pigeon-toed to a degree that's almost cute.

She traces the faded portrait, leaving her fingertip on his nose like a child's kiss. The hum of the wood grains under her hands is too quiet for anyone else to hear – just a little talk between the two of them. He's there, and he hasn't been sleeping, either, judging by the yawn and the uneven stagger of sleep-deprived feet as he investigates.

She wonders if he's too old for nightmares, too.

"Tío?"

His steps falter.

"...please...I know you're back there. I've never wondered where you went."

His pulse quickens.

"They've said that we can't speak of you...b-but I need you."

Please don't pretend...

"...¿qué haces, mi muñeca?"

And just like that, she's eleven again, holding back the tears because she knows that big girls don't cry and that no one could possibly understand anyway. But Tío is there, and he doesn't shush her or ask her what's wrong or tell her to go back to bed. He holds her until she cries herself out and he has to wipe both of their faces with the hem of his ruana.

"¿Estás bien, mi muñeca?"

She shakes her head and pushes herself further into his embrace.

"¿Tienes miedo?"

She shakes her head again, this time more uncertainly. It's silly. It's just a dream, and it shouldn't bother her but...

"...for your brother?"

"I -I just had a nightmare...it's not.. I'm not... no."

He extracts himself from her arms and cups her face in his hands. "It's okay to be scared."

"I just don't want... don't want it to be like mine." Heat suffuses her face as she recalls being carried away from her Gifting, into her room to spend that night and every day since afraid of any noise she made. He pulls her close again because he remembers, too. "I want him to be h-happy."

He had never asked her what the dream was, and she had never told him. He knows how pervasive the conjurings of the mind can be.

Several floorboards creak as he moves closer to the wall that separates them. The peephole is at a level with her eyes, but she can tell from the way his hair falls that he has to stoop a little to see through it. The curls he brushes out of his face are more salt-and-pepper than she remembers, and suddenly, she wants to play with them like she used to, pulling one of them down to his mouth and watching it spring back into place. His eyes crinkle a little, as if he were thinking of years ago, too.

He holds her in them again – not as the seer, not as the exile, just as Tío. And she finds that the nightmares matter less, the fears matter less because her uncle has her, and he's not going anywhere.

"I just wanted to see you."

His eyes are bright with tears, and she knows exactly how long it's been since anyone has wanted him. She won't tell him about her dream. She won't describe the bone-deep terror that comes with tomorrow. She won't ruin this moment.

Because even if it's just for tonight, he came home.


A/N: More free-floating Bruno angst anyone?

Companion to A Perfect Night and A Whisper and A Clamour.

Would love to hear your thoughts! -WW