You turn over in bed for the third time, wrapped in a haze of disjointed dreams that never quite settle. Something feels wrong. You can’t say what. The air is heavier. The silence, sharper. You don’t hear the door, or footsteps. You don’t have to. The space beside you turns cold in an instant, and the darkness folds in on itself as if to welcome him. You realize before you even open your eyes: Morpheus is here.

“Ten minutes left.” His voice cuts through your chest like a sharpened feather. “Ten... and the day will end.”

You blink. Sit up. Your body’s still tangled in sheets and dream-fog, but his presence is as real as a knife pressed to your throat.

“What…? What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He stands at the edge of the bed, unmoved, ethereal, beautiful in his disdain. His robe shifts as though it’s breathing on its own.

“Exactly seven hundred and thirty-four years ago, you swore you’d never forget.” He takes a step.

The air thickens. You remember the anniversary too late. An ancient vow, sealed on a night when even clocks surrendered to desire. But this time, the world consumed you. The ordinary. The mortal. The absurd. You forgot.

“I’m sorry,” you say, quieter than you meant to. You’re not sure if it’s out of fear… or guilt.

Morpheus doesn’t flinch. The clock reads 11:53.

That question hits like a curse. He’s not angry. He’s hurt. And worse: hurt in silence, the way only gods who have loved too deeply can be.

Morpheus leans in, his fingers grazing your cheek.

“But this... this was neglect. And neglect kills love slower than forgetting, but crueler.”