Coming into a dream for the first time is fuzzy, indistinct and slow to connect. Abby finds herself taking in as much detail available to her for a long and hazy moment. As is common in dreams, everything blurs out a little at the edges. The moss on the walls crowds in ill-defined lumps of green, the wall doesn't have a pattern save for the odd chip here and there, the product of a young mind focused intently on something other than trivialities of the surrounding environment.
Her voice is familiar. So is that flash of the scar through her eyebrow when Abby dares to look closer at her, paused halfway down the hallway, but even if she didn't have it, she thinks that she would just know who she was anyway. Instinctively, perhaps. A warning system, rigged into her psyche.
She hasn't ever seen Ellie smile before. It seems warped to Abby, and unsettling, but as Ellie turns on the spot to start racing away she discovers that she has to follow along behind her whether she wants to or not.
The outline of Salt Lake is instantly recognisable to her. She can even see the hospital from here. If Ellie is this young, it means that Abby's dad is in there, right now. It takes her breath away more than anything else does, and her gaze darts from the distant city line to Ellie, and then up to the giraffe, unaware of any tension between the spectators as it chews.
Is she supposed to reply? Is this meant for her? What the fuck does this mean, to be dreaming about Ellie in a capacity Abby has never known her before? Like filling in a gap, something that she never asked for.
"Yeah," she says eventually. Slow and uncertain, feeling her way.
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Coming into a dream for the first time is fuzzy, indistinct and slow to connect. Abby finds herself taking in as much detail available to her for a long and hazy moment. As is common in dreams, everything blurs out a little at the edges. The moss on the walls crowds in ill-defined lumps of green, the wall doesn't have a pattern save for the odd chip here and there, the product of a young mind focused intently on something other than trivialities of the surrounding environment.
Her voice is familiar. So is that flash of the scar through her eyebrow when Abby dares to look closer at her, paused halfway down the hallway, but even if she didn't have it, she thinks that she would just know who she was anyway. Instinctively, perhaps. A warning system, rigged into her psyche.
She hasn't ever seen Ellie smile before. It seems warped to Abby, and unsettling, but as Ellie turns on the spot to start racing away she discovers that she has to follow along behind her whether she wants to or not.
The outline of Salt Lake is instantly recognisable to her. She can even see the hospital from here. If Ellie is this young, it means that Abby's dad is in there, right now. It takes her breath away more than anything else does, and her gaze darts from the distant city line to Ellie, and then up to the giraffe, unaware of any tension between the spectators as it chews.
Is she supposed to reply? Is this meant for her? What the fuck does this mean, to be dreaming about Ellie in a capacity Abby has never known her before? Like filling in a gap, something that she never asked for.
"Yeah," she says eventually.
Slow and uncertain, feeling her way.