“The line between life and death is not thicker than an eyelid.”
—Eiji Yoshikawa
 
 
 
 
 
 
. . .
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
[???]
 
 
Proserpina had already gotten that typical, nagging feeling in the back of her mind (that wasn’t Thanatos, for once) that this was a dream as soon as she had come to.
 
She had already deduced this place was not even real because she doesn’t remember coming ‘here’… wherever this place is, not like she would be able to in the real world. And the world looks and feels so different here, she could not literally sense a living soul.
 
Some parts of the room she was in looked so blurry like a faded photograph and some are moving so slowly into a complete focus, like a camera that has yet to fully adjust.
 
Oh, and she’s also wearing her pajamas.
 
…not the typical sleepwear she has on these days, Proserpina noted; not the one with long sleeves made of silk and satin pajamas set with buttons.
 
And no, looking at what she’s wearing now, Proserpina doesn’t want to admit that Alastor might be on to something when he needlessly points out a few nights ago that most of her outfits (and even her sleepwear) looks essentially the same.
 
She’s not wearing the ‘essentially same’ outfit here, in this might-be dream at the very least. Because that’s the first thing Proserpina had noticed, of all things.
 
Her freaking clothes.
 
Her expression flattens as she inspects the strange, all-white pajamas set she had on right now with a blank expression.
 
The outfit was so unlike the usual black or dark colors she favors in most of her things, practically an antithesis… and unlike the silky-smooth satin fabric she prefers to wear for sleeping, these pajamas are made of a soft, cotton fabric.
 
What the hell am I even wearing.
 
Proserpina can feel a fluffy sort of cloth hovering over her head, and she instinctively reaches up a hand to feel it.
 
A hood.
 
She’s wearing a hoodie…
 
Her expression flattens even further then.
 
A hoodie with cat ears.
 
…Alastor would definitely have had a field day seeing her with cat ears, she huffs in amusement at the thought, in spite of the absurdity of the situation.
 
‘As most dreams tend to.’
 
At least this thing doesn’t have a tail to go with…
 
She internally shudders at the thought.
 
Still, this is an attire that Proserpina would definitely not wear or be caught dead (or even alive) in, but she knows someone other than Alastor who would have liked seeing her dressed as a cat.
 
Back when she was small, much younger and had no say or even sort of interest in such things like clothing. Back when she still lives in the only home she has ever considered as such… like this house she was standing on right now.
 
A place she thought she will never see or set foot in ever again.
 
…her own bedroom.
 
Not unless if this isn’t real. Or imagined.
 
Or a dream, perhaps.
 
Whatever Alastor had managed to snuck in her hot chocolate tonight had definitely led her to this dream, she mused, that’s the only possible explanation she had to dream of something so… bittersweet.
 
Because as much as she wanted to turn away from the sight of home or hopefully wake up from the dream (Winters doesn’t want to see this she doesn’t need to watch her home burning again she can’t Thanatos, please don’t let me see this), knowing that even something as nostalgic as this could easily turn into something so unpleasant…
 
Proserpina allowed the dream to keep on playing.
 
Partly because she knows she has to in order to wake up and partly because of morbid curiosity, despite herself, the thoughts of what will I see?
 
What will hurt me now, this time around?
 
In this dream, she sees herself as a child and follows the little girl she once was walking around the house. Winters Veil seems to be no older than four as she sleepily walks to a room she knows painfully well.
 
“Daddy?” little Winters calls out, knocking gently on the door, rubbing at her too-small face that was partially obscured with that blasted cat-eared hoodie Proserpina herself was wearing right now. Even her voice as a child was so jarring. So… young.
 
“Hm? Win-Win…?”
 
But whatever feelings Proserpina has on listening her own voice as a child (practically a baby at that) has completely nothing upon hearing Warren Veil’s voice without a warning.
 
There were footsteps, the door soon creaking open with a glimpse of an old room from behind him that made her head pound and her heart ache with a thousand memories she no longer dared to look upon for so long.
 
There was that scent of cedar, paper, and coffee that she can only associate with him, almost making her sway on her feet as she slowly finds herself looking at his face.
 
This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
 
It can’t be…
 
He looked so much like William… but so much younger than Proserpina herself remembered than the last time she had seen him alive.
 
Dad…
 
Proserpina had never dreamt of him alive before.
 
Her nightmares usually consisted of their house burning, the monsters tearing her apart, with William’s pained screams in the distance as she walked through snow and fire looking for him and their father dead, his corpse brutalized to the point of being unrecognizable.
 
In the end, they had nothing left of him to bury.
 
The nightmares are usually seeing William hurt or dying, both as a twelve-year-old and as an adult, her nearing death’s door with Hades… Roman.
 
Never had Warren Veil made a real appearance in any of those dreams and nightmares. Or at least, none that she knows of or remembered upon waking… and in some awful way, it had made her feel glad, no matter how much she had missed him that it truly hurt.
 
…because at the very least, the image of the father she had known, the one who truly loved her despite everything wouldn’t be violated more than it already has.
 
“Why are you still up? Did you have a bad dream again, sweetheart?” Warren was asking now, kneeling a bit to scoop Winters up in his arms where her child-self automatically snuggled in the embrace, her little arms wrapping around his neck as she sniffled, blinking back tears.
 
Winters nodded without a word, mushing her little face on his shoulder. And even from where she stands frozen stiff, Proserpina can see Warren’s sleep shirt being stained with tears.
 
“That bad, huh,” Warren mused, almost to himself, now rocking back and forth a bit as he gently combed the hair off of her child self’s face and it aches, knowing just how such a simple gesture could make her feel so comforted.
 
She can only watch as he stared at her younger self with eyes that looked too much like William’s, filled with so much warmth that Proserpina will fondly recall about him the most.
 
His eyes are such a brilliant shade of bright blue, like the clearest skies during the short summers they had back home. Precious, because it was so quick to pass them by. Warm and so soft to look at. She had missed those eyes.
 
She had missed him so much.
 
How could she had ever dared to doubt that he loved her when he had always looked at her like she was something so precious…?
 
He smiles then, “…wanna talk about it?”
 
(And knowing that she would have done anything once upon a time just to see him smile again has never hurt as much as it did right now.)
 
“Our h-house… it was b-burning,” Winters finally said, her little voice cracking with grief, “T-There was… s-so much smoke, it’s too hot a-and I… I… I c-can’t see… Will’s gone. Mama’s gone and you… Daddy… you’re… y-you’re…!”
 
Winters began to sob there and then, her little shoulders heaving as she trembled, curling within his arms. Warren gently patted her on the back, the other combing through her hair.
 
“It’s okay Win, it’s just a bad dream…”
 
“But… but it felt so real! I can still smell smoke and Daddy was screaming–” she hiccupped, and he hugged her tightly.
 
Proserpina’s fingernails dug to her skin.
 
Because Warren’s gaze, hidden from Winters now, had suddenly turned glassy and distant, as if Warren was remembering something particularly painful.
 
Proserpina knew what nightmare her younger self was talking about. She had a lot of those, even from before. She still had some vague memories of that nightmare being brushed off as just an ordinary bad dream. Just a result of a toddler’s wild imagination.
 
Back then, even she had never given it a second thought, not after Warren had stayed and sung to her to sleep. But now… now, she could remember the nightmare that made her run to him so clearly.
 
Of their house burning, crashing in on itself. The smell of putrid smoke. The fires burning her eyes as the monsters tore her apart and started feasting on her. It was too hot, too cold and I was alone, you could not protect me.
 
…and I could not save you.
 
Looking back on it now, the goddess of shadows had never expected that her nightmare as child was already a premonition for what’s to come.
 
And as her younger self had begun to somewhat calm down, Warren was back to smiling again like the odd expression he had on just now never happened as he wiped her face in the same way he always did; patient and gentle.
 
As though all was right in the world once more. Little Winters just had a bad dream and daddy is still alive to wipe the tears away.
 
“Better?” Warren asked after some time, and Winters nodded at him with one, last hiccup. He smiles, his voice lowering into a whisper: “Alrighty then, let’s go back to your room before we wake the baby…”
 
“O-okay… but can you… c-can you stay, daddy?” Winters asked, leaning on him as he gently closes the door as to not make a sound before he starts heading off to the direction of her bedroom, “Just until I get back to sleep? Please…?” 
 
Warren kissed the top of her head.
 
“Of course, Winters, but…”
 
And Proserpina felt her heart just about dropped when he suddenly looked up and turned his gaze directly to her. Not past her. Not at Winters, her younger self.
 
But at her.
 
His smile was tinged with sadness this time.
 
“…shouldn’t you be waking up by now?”