I run through the mud, in my dream, with my white nightgown fluttering. I hear the splat splat splat of my bare feet hitting the soft, wet earth. I run through puddles of cold muddy water, feeling the cold, even though I know well that I am dreaming. I know that the whispers I hear are the leaves on the trees, shivering in the strong, warm wind. I feel the wind on my face, I hear the whispers all around, behind the splat splat of my bare feet, shaking the mud high, throwing it like waves crashing to my right and left. I see the half-moon in the crimson sky above the faint glow of the trees. It looks like a sly smile, reminding me of the silver moon-shaped pendant hanging on the chain around my neck. The moon seems so close in my dream; I could, you might say, reach out my hand, wrap it around it. But I cannot stand still, cannot catch the moon. They are chasing me. And I know that if I turn around, I will see him.

And even though I know it, I cannot help but turn. I never have control in my dreams. I cannot do what I would like to do. I run barefoot in the wet mud, under the low, lush green branches of the trees. I am afraid. I know that I am afraid. That I have every reason to be afraid. Because when I turn back… when I cast a quick, trembling glance behind me… the wolf is there. The black wolf of my dreams. It growls and rumbles as it runs silently behind me. It lowers its head as if preparing to attack. The black fur on its back stands up. And once again, I see its eyes. Blue like mine. The black wolf has my eyes.