I was walking through a dense wood. There were trees all around, higher than the highest buildings I had ever seen. I kept walking when I realized there was no sound. I could see my feet moving, but I couldn't hear the sound of the dried leaves crackling underneath them. I could see the birds swoop from tree to tree, but I couldn't hear the light flapping of their wings. Suddenly I stopped. In front of me was an old cottage. It was quaint and rundown, but it was getting dark and starting to rain, so I ran inside. There I found a fire already bright in the hearth, and a blanket lay over the back of a chair. I grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around myself, lying down near the fire. I hadn't realized how cold I was. I fell asleep almost immediately, and when I awoke, I found myself in a cot before the fire's embers and a bowl of porridge on the table on the other side of the room. Lying on the same chair the blanket had been on was a pair of black breeches and a navy blue shirt. I got up and put the clothes on, looking around the room for the person who seemed to know I was here, yet didn't show themselves. After I dressed (in clothes that fit amazingly well) I sat down at the table. The cereal didn't look any different than the food I used to eat at home, and still, I was wary. I picked up the spoon and took a sip. Oh.it was lovely! I hadn't taste something so good in as long as I could remember. I soon had eaten the whole bowl, forgetting my earlier fears. I got up and wandered around the small cottage, looking at the paintings on the walls, and the sparse furnishings. It was small, but wonderful. I sighed and sat in the chair; gracious for the shelter in the land I had thought to be uninhabited. Then it struck me. I could hear myself again! What had happened? Who knew? I didn't know it then, but I never would know. The wind was sighing in the trees, and the storm was still raging outside. I moved the chair closer to the embers, and curled up with the blanket wrapped around me. I awoke when I heard the movements. There was someone else in the cottage! The person who had given me all those things! They were here, now! I peeked through my half closed eyes, and what I saw made my breath hold. In front of the fire was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. His black hair was framed by the roaring flames, making a sort of halo about his head. His bright blue eyes stared back at me out of a face made of bold cheekbones and a strong jaw. His lips were sensuous, and I couldn't stop myself from wondering what they would feel like press against mine. His hands were wide, a workingman's hands, and I imagined they would feel like smoothed leather against my skin. Suddenly he spoke, snapping me out of my reverie. "Hello, a ghra," his voice was deep and rich, like red wine with gold edges. He looked at me as if I was a treasure, and with his attention, I felt like one. I sat up straighter in my chair, aware of my rumpled clothes and messy red curls. "Hello." Why couldn't I think of anything to say? Meeting this man was like meeting a god of old. I didn't know whether he was real or I was hallucinating. " I've been preparing for you a long time. You look even more stunning than I've dreamed," I let his words wash over me, like being swallowed by a silk sea. Then I realized what he had said. " Waiting for me?" He'd dreamed of me? How could he know me? He wasn't older than me. It was almost laughable. Probably the same age. He might be a little older, but if he had ever seen me, I would have remembered him. "Yes." He laughed, like pipes and flutes coming from a far off shore, sweeping me up into the clouds, " I'm much older than I look. Trust me," " Oh," I was drifting slowly back into sleep, my eyelids heavy. But I couldn't. I had to know more about this handsome stranger, "Are you the one who left the things for me?" "Yes." He smiled at me, the grin lighting up his features, " Sleep, my flame-haired angel. In the morning I will still be here." "Alright." I closed my eyes, and tumbled into dreams. He stood and walked toward my sleeping form. His hand reached out to touch my cheek. He kneeled next to my chair, his eyes on my lips, my closed eyes, my cheeks, my long, red curls, " Skin so fair," He fingered the tips of my waist-length hair, " You have grown, a ghra, a amhain. How you have grown since last I saw you. You have become a beautiful woman." He stepped away from me, denying the urge to kiss, to taste, to touch, " It is not yet time." And he was gone.