It arrived as expected, the break of dawn, and Dariel would soon do so to his workshop for another day of hustle and bustle. I was early, and I could be nowhere near there when he came in, so I thought about advancing some of the day’s work. Contrary to the best practices, Dariel liked to clean before the work day started, instead of after. This meant there was a lot of things that I could do. Swiping the place alone was a simple, yet daunting task for a dream.

The sawdust liked to gather in the corners, around the legs of the furniture, duck to a lighthouse made of bread, scholars to the bad metaphors of a man that doesn’t exist. (See, friend? I can joke just as you do.)

The broom was old, battered, screaming out loud for a replacement. The same broom that, the last time I had used it, was brand new. I yelled and slammed the damn thing against the floor once and again. More than four years! Fifteen hundred days, at least. A broom was bound to be not the only thing affected by the flow of time. What else? Which single items had perished or decayed in my absence. The world I knew had shifted as we dreams do: Sharply, with disregard for the continuity things are supposed to have, without asking.

I threw the broom aside and decided to gather the sawdust on my palm. I watched it and began counting. Thirty-seven seconds after beginning, half of the sawdust on my hand had gone through it and fallen to the floor. A palm of a man would have contained it all. But I shifted slightly without noticing, or I left existence for instants so small to be seen, and dust wasted no chance to escape. I fell on my knees upon the floorboards, and it was painless for me.

“I want hands that touch, I want a body that gets hurt. I want to take the clock hands and force them back. I want … I want the life Terus had.” I lamented, curling on the floor.

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I don’t know how much later, but I heard the key turned in the main door and, with the few crumbs of dignity I had left, I stood. I sat down again when I saw it wasn’t Dariel, but the perplexed boy that he had taken under his wing.

“Hello, Selus.”

“Hi, sir Terus. How did you get in?” He asked, in a tone way calmer than the other day.

“I willed myself here, as always.” He seemed to have lost all the fears it had fostered the other day.

He took a seat by the worktable and observed me as if I were some strange thing. “Dariel… elaborated about your nature, sir Terus. He said you are cursed by a dragon or something, and thus move like that, but you are not a bad guy. He says you behave weirdly but inoffensively.”

He extended a friendly hand, and I stretched it.

“Damned to meet you, Selus. As sad as it may be, I cannot become your acquaintance. I will outlive every man that currently draws breath. I bear a dragon’s lifespan.”

“He didn’t tell me you were a grumpy one,” he said with a playful smirk. “Dariel is not coming today, and I will just take orders from customers in his stead. So, is there any way I can help you?”

“May I know why is Dariel not coming today?”

“Since when do you live in this city?” He laughed, slapped me in the shoulder, and then, when he saw my expression didn’t change, he awkwardly proceeded to explain. “I guess you only come as a tourist. Today is the monthly visit of the Avian Mistress. Dariel accompanies Orphela when she goes to pay tribute. For her safety, he says. But what can he do against a dragon?” he raised his open hands and shrugged in a mocking way.

I grunted out of frustration.

“Where are they? I have a strong suspicion that we, this mistress and I, are fire of the same pyre.”

The boy forced air through his lips, making a sound similar to a deflating balloon. “What can you do against a dragon?” he scoffed.

“I speak their tongue, I lived their battles, I suffer their curse. The real question would be: what can’t I do for a dragon?”

He crossed his arms and extended a finger to point at me. “She will kill you if you make her mad.”

“Nothing she hasn’t done before, then. See you later, Selus, one the size of Mardhaka cannot hide, not even in this city.”