Dreams are a potent thing, especially for one who lives in life, serving death. Dreams are away for the past to speak to us, for our experiences to live with us, all over again.
Dreams are a way for the subconscious to take flight, like some graceful blackwinged bird that cries out in a one-note song, and lifts into the air, like a shadow dissipated by sunlight.
In her dreams, she will walk with Death, who takes down those she loves, and restores them again, some of them better than before, more whole, more perfect, and some less, taking away pieces of them that are vital, but the poor folks don’t know it.
Sometimes, Death gives those pieces to her, in the dreams, and those who have lost watch her mournfully, curiously, as she is given what was taken from them.
No one is angry, however, and no one accuses, but the whole of it has the taste of the midnight market, where there are beggars and those who would clutch and need and take without thinking of how she might be frightened.
The older woman is not there to guide her, and somehow, though she had been clutching it tightly only a moment ago, the cool, smooth, round stone of Death… has gone missing from her hand.