The sun in this dream is high and merciless, beating down on sunbaked stone. The kind of light that makes everything too sharp. Too bright. The world's all movement and noise—shouting vendors, clattering hooves, bronze bells, sandal-scuffed dust rising in little ghosts with every step.
I'm small. Not baby-small this time—just short, dirty, and holding someone's hand too tightly. A woman's hand. Thin fingers. Calloused palm. I don't know her face. Every time I look up, her features blur like someone dragged their thumb across wet paint. But she smells like soap and onions. Her grip is warm. She's in a hurry.
We move through the square. Past a fishmonger with flies on his face. Past a temple wall streaked in bird shit and forgotten prayers. My sandals slap against the stone. I try to keep up.
Then, suddenly—she stops.
Lets go.
My fingers clutch empty air.
"Wait," I say, my voice small and stupid. "You forgot—"
But she's already walking. Not running. Just… walking away. Blending into the crowd. Sand-colored robe. Nothing special. One more body in the swarm of shouting, sweating people. And then she's gone.
I stand there like a misplaced crate. People brush past me. No one looks. No one asks. The crowd shifts and surges like waves, and I'm a pebble. Unnoticed. Unheld.
A street kid bumps me. Calls me "stupid girl." Someone laughs.
I turn in circles. I think I cry. I don't remember. Everything smells like piss and dust and roasted meat.
At some point, I sit down beside a cracked water basin. Try not to make noise. Try not to think.
She's not coming back.
She probably never meant to.
My face is wet.
At first, I think maybe the dew rolled in early. Or I drooled. Gods, please let it be drool.
But no. It's tears. Real ones. Leaking out like my eyes didn't ask permission.
I wipe them fast. Hard. Like I can scrub the dream out with the back of my hand. My breath's catching in my chest, and I hate it. I hate it.
"Get a grip, Saya," I whisper to myself. "It's just a dream. Just some foggy old nothing. Doesn't mean anything."
I curl tighter under the Dragon's wing, but it's too late. The cold's already crept in.
"I'm not alone," I murmur. "I've got him, right? Cranky lizard. Fire hazard. And I've got coin. A whole sack of it. Real coin. Not dream dust. Real weight."
My voice shakes. I pretend it doesn't.
"That's something. That's not… nothing."
I stare at the fire. It's down to red crumbs. Like something eaten and spat out.
"I've got a plan. We've got a plan. Places to go. Schemes. Warm meals. I'm fine."
I try to believe it. Gods, I try. But it sits wrong in my throat, heavy and sour.
"I'm not some forgotten street brat," I whisper, quieter now. "Not anymore."
But the square still clings to me. The way she let go. The way no one looked. No one stopped.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste iron.
"Just a dream," I say again. "Just a dream."
And I close my eyes, as tight as they'll go, and hope I don't dream of crowds again.