I had been dreaming of her—of this much I am sure. Beyond this, I am sure of little.

        I have been a man of science. (Not that I had been fool enough to doubt love: I have always recognized the mysteries underlying love. Yet, I knew—or thought I knew—this world to be the only world...and beyond this, nothing. How then might I explain the continuation of a night’s dream…into a day’s wonder?)

 

        They were—laugh if you must—the shoes, the very same ones I’d procured for her in my dreams. How do I know? The insignia—on the soles of the shoes (shoes hand-crafted by the finest European maker—and costing more than most men manage a year).

        Let me clarify: The relief of the insignia stamped the snow, like a fine engraving. Where else can this have come from, but from her…the lady I had dreamt of for seven, fitful nights? (More precisely put, where but from the shoes I had procured for her in my dream?)

        Please—let me explain—for you see, I live alone. (I am a widower; I have no live-in guest of any kind (not even a paltry dog or cat)). However, for the first time since my dear departed wife left our world…it's been years now…I found myself considering another soul; rather, I found myself conjuring up images of what she, whomever she might be, might look like were she the one I might dream of. I suppose you have guessed, by now, that I did start dreaming—and dreaming…and dreaming. Seven long nights of dreams, wonder, loss, and anguish, all bound up in an endless nocturnal spasm of fitful longing—and silliness, perhaps. (I am no young one. Who am I to dream thus?)

        Each morning I awoke with a pang in my heart for I knew I would never see her again…for she was not real! She was just a dream—although certainly a dream unlike any other I’d ever known. (I even felt guilty towards my dear, departed wife. Secretly, I asked her forgiveness—not that there was anyone to hear...or so I thought.)

 

        But, where were we?

        Oh…yes. When I awoke each morning, I would recall in precise detail the goings-on of the previous night: bookstores…candelabra-lit cafés down old, cobble-stone streets receding in the dusk...the dusk of dream…and reverie…her, there, always by my side, the flash of her glinting, mysterious eyes warming my soul and lighting my fires (eh, excuse me—I am sure you understand). And her hair! How it reminded one of my dear wife’s luxuriant mane! Dare I assert this dream creature struck even more fancy upon my heart than ever did my dear, eternally departed wife? Dare I?

                      ---

That night, a heavy snow was set to fall. News of this, however, did not distract from my belief, justly held, that soon she would be with me again: My lady, again, tonight—the lady of my dreams from distant times and London climes.

        The next morning, however, I felt strangely relieved, for I had no recollection of having dreamt that night, which meant I had not dreamt of her, for of what else can I possibly remember dreaming that forlorn week?

        Drinking my morning coffee, I reasoned upon the dreams in a matter-of-fact way. I resolved that they signaled a rekindling of my desire to re-engage with the world of company, and that I must look up some old friends (I had become a recluse ever since the tragic departure of my wife). In pursuit of this, I decided to stroll to town. After I had gotten dressed and ready, I opened the main door. A heavy snow (as referred to) had fallen overnight, and the house had had no visitors, at the least, the past 48 hours. I walked along the terrace porch to the terrace stairs. The stairs were caked with snow—as was my entire lawn, field, and as far as the eye could see.

        I felt myself fall dead, right there, for there, on the terrace steps, were the imprints of footprints leading down those steps, out onto the snow-white lawn, onward to the field and off—off I say—to the thick woods themselves! Regaining some composure, I extracted my cell phone from my pocket and used the camera to magnify the prints. I was able to discern “Moore Brothers” imprinted in the moist, impressionable snow. You see, in my dream, Moore Brothers & Co. had been the maker...that is, the maker of the shoes, the shoes I had acquired for the lady in my dream! The lady I had dreamt of—the nocturnal beauty of my seven-night phantasmagoria! And now, look: these were the imprints in the life awake!

 

        But, I ask: How could this be? Explain, please!