Real

She watched, a calm, immutable force at his side, watched as a child screamed and a mother cried, their voices somehow separated from reality.

She reached for him, when he seemed intent on letting the funeral wash over him, disconnected from reality.

She listened to him, standing by a good man's grave, the fabric of unreality slowly tearing asunder.

She protected him in his mourning, silently sharing the rainstorm from a clear sky.

And she cried for them, alone in her room, cried for the child and the mother and the dead man and her charge… cried for the cost of making dreams real.