One hundred years. [She risks a glance over to her arm. He's gotten most of the flowers out of her arm. There's blood dripping from her arm and joining the blood on the floor, but at least there are less flowers than there were before.
She's met people from other worlds, here. Maybe a god of dreams isn't that much stranger. Or -- well. It is stranger, but it's too much to process all at once.]
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She's met people from other worlds, here. Maybe a god of dreams isn't that much stranger. Or -- well. It is stranger, but it's too much to process all at once.]
And what happened. After one hundred years.