I. The dream of the little girl

I cannot see at all; although my eyes aren’t shut, a dark veil covers my retinas. A faint ticking sound reaches my ears, uneven; it switches to tapping and what seems to be a screwing motion from time to time.
An artisan at work, perhaps; it all seems familiar.
I am comfortable.

With a final exhale from him, the sounds all stop.

A rough and sturdy hand comes to meet mine. Time has drawn lines and experience has marked it deeply.

I feel a soft, steaming-hot breath on my ear; it is reassuring and pleasant.
Some of the figure’s beard hairs brush my face; it itches, but deep down I feel strangely calmed by them.

The figure starts to inhale deeply and then, after a moment, emits a precise and sustained blow.
From the device he made escapes a note; its beauty affects me, my eyes tear, and my mouth forms a wide smile.

The dream ultimately fades the moment I feel a cold object placed inside my hand.
It is heavy while being rather small; my hand pulses, the blood in it seems to try to absorb it, making it its own. It sinks into my skin, fuses with my bones, sending chills down my very spine.
The sensation is too strong for me to stay asleep, but I still want to know what happens next.

Too late, the dream is gone and my eyes are wide open.