Maria shivered in the damp fog that surrounded her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. This was insane, stupid, deluded. She was crazy, just like everyone called her.
Only a mad person who lost the last of her brain cells would listen to the insistent voice in her head—those compelling, deep, drip into her conscience like molten chocolate, tones. She knew that voice, had always known it, and she could no more ignore the pull, the connection she felt to the owner of that voice than she could stop breathing.
The doctors said it was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. They tried to still the words with their drugs and their treatments, until they declared her cured.
For years he hadn’t visited her dreams, but tonight he’d come back, had lured her to the forest until she stood here in nothing but her night dress.
A virginal offering to whatever lurked in that fog.
An owl hooted in the distance and Maria spun round at the sound of breaking twigs. The wind picked up, whipping her hair around her face, and then she saw him.
As majestic as he had been in her dreams.
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