Nightmares. Night terrors. When did the night become something so ominous? The day is filled with just as many things to trouble the mind, just as many torments and fears. Day terrors.

She awakes, suddenly, violently, flailing limbs and blankets in disarray, her mind even moreso. She feels the empty space next to her, a queen-sized bed. Royalty and sleeping arrangements always confused her.

The empty space. It's where he would have been.

She had been so violently awoken, not because of nightmares, but because it was the first night since the Accident that her dreams were calm, peaceful, enough to jar her awake.

His spot was cold. She caressed the sheets, fondled them, attempted to put every ounce of her warmth into a two-foot width of bed-space. To no avail.

She stared at her hands, tiny, hardly even visible in the half-glow of the streetlight outside her window. Overcast skies. She remembered how he would tease her about her hands, childlike, clumsy, hardly able to hold a crayon or scissors. How he would always take her hands anyway, keep them warm. How they felt even smaller in his hands and yet her indifference to that fact. It was okay to be small then.

How he would scratch the tip of his nose or push up his glasses while they were still holding hands, the back of her hand always brushing against his lips, and the way he would complete the brush with a kiss. She always thought it was silly, laughing, but happiness.

It was okay to feel small then.