Clockwise- ✔

Chapter 3 - 1864

"You have been the last dream of my soul."

- Charles Dickens

꘏۞꘏

The writer, Mr. Andrew Anderson, awoke in the cold of the morning to the sounds of wind blowing hard against his windows. This round, no time was wasted questioning the dreams of the night before. There was no time! It was now obvious to Andrew that his son's very life could be taken from him at any moment.

Thus, the man burst from his bed, rushing down the corridor to a room he somehow knew as Peter's. He made no such effort to keep quiet, hoping to awake all who may be in the house.

The door to Peter's room slammed open and smashed against the wall, leaving a mark on the wallpaper. Immediately the teenager perked up with an ever worrisome expression, "Pap! is something the matter?"

Andrew collapsed at his son's bedside, gripping his hands, shoulders, and cheeks, forcing the brunette-headed boy to look him in the eyes. His voice was rushed and stern, a tone he rarely used with his son, "Peter, please, tell me of this reality. Are you here? Living? Breathing? In front of me now?"

"Haven't you got your own eyes? Can you not see for yourself?" The boy replied, his brow creased in apprehension and his voice horse from his slumber.

Plainly, Andrew replied, "It is not enough. I must know for sure."

"Ah," the child mumbled, his hands playing with each other in his lap, "And if you see it is not real? Would you leave me for what was?"

"I would like that statement to be elaborated," Andrew demanded.

Peter shrugged in return, "I read a story about a grieving man, who dreams fantastical dreams of his deceased loved one because it is too upsetting to wake up without them. Yet, in the end, he realized that there was no way to rid the past and sacrificed his love so he could return to what was true. It was tough for him... saying goodbye, that is."

Andrew listened to his child as if they were sharing the secrets of the world. Perhaps the writer's life was walking the tightrope that were these very words. His chest rose slowly as he absorbed the meaning behind his son's gentle words.

"It makes me wonder," Peter continues, "If my existence were only a dream... would you abandon it? Would you abandon me?"

"No," the father whispered, "Never, Peter, never."

Peter hummed. Nodding his head and looking away, "I wish you had answered differently."

There was a solemn silence that flooded the room after that. The stench of comprehension flowed through the windows and under the door. The aura of pre-mature grief encapsulated Andrew, and the contentment of a new day faded away.

An interruption showed itself in the form of Andrew's mother, Mrs. Anderson, knocking the door open and stomping into the room, cap, nightgown, and all.

"Andrew Anderson!" She accusingly boomed, "What is the meaning of this ruckus in the morning. Why you woke me before the hen's call. The sun is hardly awake!"

Peter was the first to speak, always crafting peace whenever he could, "My father only ails from a nightmare. He came to check on me and assure my safety."

Mrs. Anderson huffs like an overworked mare, "Oh, Andrew. Are you not old enough to decipher reality for yourself?"

"It appears not," Andrew sighs, "It's morning enough. We might as well get ready. Off mama, to your room. Dress yourself; yell later."