Occasionally, Wanda could endure days without craving the sound of your voice and the scent of your skin. Yet, two or three nights a week, she allowed herself to indulge in the illusion. It was all she possessed of you, a fractured psyche's futile attempt to resurrect what was lost. However, with each dawn, reality rudely intruded, casting her directionless in a world that felt irreparably broken, a world where breathing was a tiring task, and where loss was her only constant companion.