death coats sylph in melancholy, clinging to her even in the brightest of days. even the companionship of her sweet anna through the sunlit hours could not vanquish his presence, only serving as a well-enjoyed distraction. many nights have passed since she last felt him, yet death stands before her now, no longer spectre but man made real under mortal's gaze. the longer she allows herself to simply stare from her place upon the chaise, the longer she wonders if is this waking terror or if morpheus clings to her still? with his movement she sits up hastily, a chill running through her she does not succeed in repressing. lithe fingers could reach out and touch with how close he appears, but dare not lest they feel the sturdiness of flesh that would prove him real. and so she dares a question instead, “ why have you come ? ”