— I...help... you, — Morpheus stuttered.

Sylvie slowly turned her head to him. — I didn't make you into a human to force you. I did it to ask you. Let this be clear. The metamorphosis can be undone anytime. If you're not up to it, just tell me.

— No... I want.

She smiled. This time, Morpheus realized all that was hidden in that smile. No, he was wrong: Sylvie wasn't trying to hide her feelings. In that moment, she was showing him her raw self: her sadness, her bitterness, her loneliness. But now all of that was veiled by relief... and gratitude. How long had she been locked in that cave, with only her memories to keep her company?

— Are you aware of the implications of your present decision?

Morpheus thought about it. He recalled his life up until that moment. The hunting, the feeding, the running. Did he really feel free? Had he ever made an independent decision, one that was not dictated by the sheer need to survive? He realized that he never had the opportunity to choose anything. Not until now. Now, he was ready to make his very first act of freedom. He, the newborn Morpheus, suddenly felt purposeful.

He took a deep breath, then rose and faced her. — I am.

Sylvie stood up too and put her hands on her hips, smirking. Her eyes were dense of expectation. — Well then, you'll play for me until the last star dies out.

Lost travelers recount of the sound of a violin in the heart of the forest, wolves territory. The most curious ones who dare to investigate portray a girl in an iris blue dress, hair darker than the night, sitting by the entrance of a cave. A young men with eyes brighter than the sun is said to stand by her side, playing a violin as old as the forest itself.

They narrate of packs of wolves drawn near that cave during stormy nights. Even when it's pouring and the thunders are deafening that violin can always be heard. It's a siren song, except it's not deceiving: the wolves know they can trust the ancient violin.