She waited for me to come to her. She knew I would come, that I would find her, even though the place she found herself in was no place she had ever known before. She did not know me, of course, just that I was possible. It was a world where such things were possible, even though she had not seen enough of it to know that.
Still, she said, she knew that I would come.
She said too, that when she managed a few hours of troubled sleep in that strange place she’d found herself, that she saw me in her dreams searching for her. She saw me wandering the dark twisting corridors with a flaming torch in my hands, as I searched for the woman who had come to me in my dreams.
She seemed to understand when I said I knew as little about the place we found ourselves in as she did. That I had managed to find a way out of my room, my cell, my prison, and I had walked the endless dark corridors for many days and nights looking for the woman that haunted my dreams and called out to me whenever I slept.
What she didn’t know, though, was that I was lying to her: I was no prisoner I was the gaoler.
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