To calm myself, I hide between the bookshelves in the philosophy section, which is almost empty in the store full of customers. The meeting has made me emotional, much more than I liked it. I feel unstable and flushed, and I need some fresh air. The event must have been a massive win for a small store like this. 

I planned to buy the latest book at the signing event, but given my state, it is not a good idea. I peek at the signing table and see through the windows the line outside, which is still there. It is a shorter one, but plenty of people are still waiting. I see Mr. Blackwood's side profile, looking as handsome as ever. He smiles at the fans, talks with them, signs the books, and occasionally takes out his leathery notebook to scribble something in it. I don't envy him; the day must be exhausting.

Seeing him makes my hand burn as I suddenly think of the brief touch of his fingertips, and I almost check for real burn marks. I try to push the impure thoughts away, but the more I try, the more my heart flutters. I’m not a teenage fangirl, or am I?

It is getting late already, and stalking him like this has no gains. After I sneakily take a picture of him with my phone, I make my way through the crowd into the dim evening light surrounding the street and run. Why? I have no idea. It makes sense to me somehow. After a while, I need to stop to catch my breath. Also, I clutch the book to my chest, and it feels heavy like a precious artifact, a piece of a gold bar. It makes moving awkward, so I hide it in my bag.

The familiar sight of my apartment building finally greets me, and as I climb the stairs to my or Mary’s flat, I recount the brief conversation I had with Mr. Blackwood in my mind, realizing I might have been impolite to him by not addressing him as mister. I'm still a bit high and starstruck, so I cannot remember, but it does not matter, I decide. We are not going to meet anytime soon, and I am sure there are more crazier fans than me.

Finally home, I kick my shoes to the corner, hang my bag and cardigan on the coat rack, and sit on the bed with the signed book. I carefully place the book on my bedside table, smiling. With a newfound sense of courage, I settle into my desk chair, pulling out a fresh notebook and uncapping my favorite pen. I feel that this needs to be written with a pen, not on a laptop, as I used to do when I was younger. As I begin to write, the words start to take the shape of a poem about the loss I didn't know existed in me. It is terrible, clichéd, and full of darkness, trees, old candles, and despair—a lot of despair. It makes me laugh, and I hide the notebook in the darkest corner of my drawer. Now I know why I lost the habit when I started university.

After a light evening meal and paying my bills (a.k.a. hanging aimlessly on social media), I lie on the bed exhausted, my eyes closed. The day has taken a toll on me. I allow myself to envision working at the library, surrounded by stacks of books and towering shelves. Behind one of them, I secretly watch Evander Blackwood. I cannot think why he is there, but I accept my image, smiling sheepishly. I sink deeper into this silly fantasy, and as sleep begins to overtake me, my eyes fly wide open. I forgot to call Mary back. "I will explain it to her tomorrow," I promise myself with a sigh, and when I close my eyes, the real dream finally redeems me.

I walk a sandy path in a vast park at night. I don't know where it is, but the place is familiar. I have been here many times before during the daytime. The night is dark, yet I can see a swirling haze rising from the ground in the moonlight. I shiver as the air has a hint of autumn, and I am dressed too lightly in a nightdress with long sleeves. It has lovely pink fringes and lace and a teddy bear pattern. I now see that it is obviously a child's, and I am a six- or seven-year-old child. At least my body is. 

I can feel the eyes watching me, but the park behind me is empty when I turn around. I know I should be afraid—I would be if I were awake—but instead, I feel very comfortable. I continue, passing many trees and lovely flower beds, until I see a small gazebo behind old oak trees. I hear a faint noise inside it, and when I move closer, I see a boy sitting on the floor, hunched over and crying. He is older than me, maybe ten years old, but I cannot tell from here. When I try to enter the gazebo, it moves farther. I try again, and again, it shifts away from my grasp. I attempt to run, jump, or sneak into it, but the result is always the same.

"Sleep, Sophie. You should sleep deeply," a soft female voice says, and I fall into a deep, black sleep without dreams.