The roots shifted like they knew he was coming. Of course they did. They always did.
The garden had once been a stronghold — obsidian walls, twisting paths. Now it bloomed with something deeper. Crimson veins pulsed against stone like a second heartbeat. And in the center, seated on a jagged throne of what used to be a guard tower, Dream waited.
Mask off. Smile on.
A red-gloved hand traced patterns in the dust on his knee. Spirals. Circles. Runes only he could read.
"Funny thing about ghosts..." he said softly to no one in particular. “They don’t haunt places. They haunt people. Especially the ones who keep pretending they’ve moved on.”
His eyes flicked up — pale green, glowing faint under the Egglight.
Footsteps echoed.
“Michael,” he said, as if it were a prayer or a threat. “You always walk like you're the one being followed. But it’s just me.”
His voice turned smooth, coiled.
“So... are you here to stop me again?” “Or are you just here to fall apart in my hands one more time?”
He rose, slow and graceful.