A cry had waked me – I was almost certain. I had turned my head even as I opened my eyes, looking toward you, to see what was wrong. What would make you cry out like that. But it wasn’t you. You breathed under my gaze, steady, unaware.
I stayed up on my elbows, listening hard to the night, but there were only the sounds of a sleeping house: the quiet tick of the refrigerator, the slow contraction of the wooden door frames, the secret movement of the air. Sounds of the night watch.
I listened for sounds in the street, but there was nothing – no woman calling for help (and I had been sure the cry was female), not even a cat communing with the moon.
It was only when I laid my head back down and gravity loosened the tears at the corners of my eyes and pulled them across my temples that I remembered the dream, and that the cry had come from me.