Word Count: 673

Paris was dreaming.

This would not have been much of a problem if it weren’t for two things. One, it was the middle of the day and he should have been out doing things, helping his dad in his shop or making his own fun – not that Paris sleeping late was an uncommon occurrence, especially after a long night of partying, but he hadn’t done anything yesterday except pick up his dad’s mess in the house, shovel the snow-covered driveway, and bake a few dozen cookies. Problem number two was that the image currently playing out behind his closed eyes was not one he would normally expect to see while sleeping. His dreams were generally much more interesting, and much more pleasurable.

Instead of handsome, undressed men, Paris found himself surrounded by nothing more than a dense, white fog. He didn’t have a clue where he was, though somehow he knew he was dreaming, and though he did his best to seem unconcerned, the atmosphere of whatever space he’d come to occupy was really freaking him out. In the distance, he thought he could hear a tinkling chime, a song he’d heard so many times before, but still could not identify. He briefly entertained the thought that he’d spent so much time fiddling with his snowglobes recently, he was now dreaming that he himself was inside one of them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw someone, a figure in white, but then the whole area was white, so he could have easily imagined it. He turned to look but there was no one there. The space around him was desolate – empty and quiet but for the music. He could see nothing through the fog; when he stepped forward to walk a ways, the scenery never changed.

He saw it again moments later – a flash of white along his peripheral vision. He turned faster this time and managed to glimpse a bit more – blue eyes, large and expressive in a soft, innocent face. The sight disturbed him, gave him pause, caused him to again question what it was he was really dreaming about.

The figure was a woman, he knew that much. He’d yet to see her fully, but he could at least tell that it was female. He couldn’t explain who or what she was, or how he even knew that she was really there when her image was so fleeting, and though his heart beat a daunting rhythm he knew he had to get a better look at her, he had to know for certain. Where had she come from, and what did she want?

The only woman Paris had ever dreamed about was his mother, and those dreams were never pleasant – always her retreating back, never a smile or the memory of a warm embrace. Sometimes he could hear her voice, apologizing to him, calling his name, speaking to him sweetly like she used to when he’d been small, but in the morning he always woke up angry and bitter, cursing her for neglecting him, for being selfish and leaving him behind.

In this dream, he didn’t feel that. He was curious, anxious, staring around in the hopes that he would see the woman again.

“Mom?” he called tentatively. Maybe if he put a name to the face, he’d see it more clearly, call her forth as more than shadow and mist.

For a moment he heard nothing, just the sound of his own heart beat in his ears. Then, suddenly, out of the fog came a quiet whisper, soft and melodic. It didn’t sound like the memory of his mother’s voice; it didn’t sound like any voice he’d ever heard.

“I’ll be here soon…”

Soon, something inside told him – in his heart? His mind? His soul? He didn’t know, but soon something would happen, he could swear upon it, more sure of it than he was of anything. Soon he would find what he’d always been searching for, even if he didn’t know what that was.