It was odd, really, watching over the new dreams. They rained from the clouds, if you knew where to look, and they came down in all sorts of forms-- actual raindrops, lightning, falling stars, glass orbs, will-o'-the-wisps-- it depended on the child, how wild their imagination was, and the type of dream. He loved the stars, and loved the ones that took on animal forms. Every so often, a wispy owl whose color kept shifting would soar overhead, or a wolf would dash by, chasing after that rabbit it'll never catch.
There was a curious one, though-- one that seemed almost solid. A rather small, lithe cat was sitting on the tree branch, peering down, it's eyes glittering like the actual stars. It ruffled what seemed to be wings, noticing it was caught in the action of staring, but did not leave its post, or tear away its gaze.
It came often, that cat. Never meowed, or chased the others. It just sits.
And waits.
He often wondered whose dream it was, or if it was a dream at all--but surely, real cats did not have wings, or sit so still?
He could not be sure. He didn't remember the outside very well.
He wasn't sure he remembered the outside at all, actually. It'd always just been this forest, with the high gates preventing him from going too deep, with the rain of dreams forever flowing into the mysterious, glowing, blue-green pond below. It was funny, really, how fragile memory was.
How little you could count on it.
Like the black cat-- the cat who was always there, yet never there, at the same time. It was gone now, and he wasn't sure it was ever there at all.
He was distracted again, by the moonlight. The moon, who hardly came out, was shining so brightly today.
He wondered what had made her happy. He wondered if perhaps, by some odd chance, he had made her happy.
Perhaps he had finally gotten the hang of it-- perhaps he had finally made this loud, wild garden of dreams tame enough for her to be pleased.
Perhaps it was enough for him to live up to his title.
