The dream of my memory used to always be the same. But it hasn’t been for some time now.

I’m more aware, but in less control. So many things that were never here before stand out like garish streaks of black marker across a Joseon king’s portrait: the soft sound of chimes and thunder; a rustling like wings flapping; the ice creaking, straining beneath a great weight.

Despite this awareness, I can’t stop anything, not even myself -- most especially and most annoyingly not myself. I thought people were able to, like, control lucid dreams. I know this is a dream -- I know exactly how it’s going to end...but I can’t do anything about it.

I hear the voice. Come, it says. Come and play with me, Rami’el.

Ramiel? The name nudges at my brain; it is oddly, annoyingly familiar. I know it, yet cannot remember why or how. Déjà vu, I guess?

I throw on my hoodie and some shoes. I am not in any way properly dressed for the weather. It is the dead of night in winter. Snow is falling: how do I not think to put on a thicker coat or even a pair of gloves? Regardless, I climb out my window and look up at the sky, where the massive full moon hangs in the dark. If that raspy voice had not called, everything would be silent.

I never realized how quickly I am walking -- no, not walking: running. Running, because I am excited, and the wind is at my back. I see more, and that means I feel more. I realize how I feel the wind and the winter air, but I don’t feel cold. I feel...energized, awake. I feel my fingers twitching in excitement. I scoop at snow on my way to the ground; I kick it with my feet, watching it explode in sparkling clouds.

You called down the thunder, the voice laughs. Well...here I am.

You always did think too highly of yourself, the other, raspier voice replies. Just like our brother.

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Which one?

Two shining persons with bright wings of light erupting from their backs face each other. One of them is like lightning. The other has a sword of fire

And, as always...I fall.

That never changes. The end is always the same: I always fall down, down through the ice and into the dark water. Now it’s cold -- squeeze the air from your lungs and shock your system cold.

My arms and legs feel heavy and the ice closes back up over my head; I can see it rebuilding itself in frosty strands. I’d call it beautiful, but that’s why I’m scared, because there’s no way out. And that’s what makes me, stupidly, cry out in fear, letting out all the air from my lungs in massive, wobbly bubbles. They float towards the light of the moon.

That big, bright moon...the one that is dimming while the dark starts to swallow me.

I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. I can’t breathe.

Light. Gold light, bright as the sun explodes, and I’m in the dark. I can’t breathe.

Silence. Am I dead? I can’t breathe.

I think I hear the wind? Is that what I feel on my face? I can’t...or am I...I don’t know if I can breathe.

Rafa’el…

You have never asked anything of me before--

Please. I will beg if that is what you want--

Has it been so long that you think that little of me?

Warmth strokes my cheek, and I think I hear music. Fire around me. Fire within me. Fire melting everything, melting me. My lungs feel like someone’s cracking them out of ice trays, blowing warm air to inflate them like shrivelled balloons.

That face...the golden face with the kind smile...it’s smiling at me. It is his hands that are on my face, that are warming me. I see, now, the circles and lines under the eyes, the way the dark golden colour reflects me back to it...a scrawny, gangly kid who’s turned practically blue--...is that music?