The knock on her front door pulled Loma from her sleep, though as usual, her dream had been reluctant to let her go. It took her a moment to realize she was curled in the middle of her bed on top of the blankets.
It was a pillow under her hand, not the trunk of the unfamiliar tree that appeared in her dreams with more and more frequency. The woodsy-sweet smell of the yew's bark and needles still lingered in her nostrils. She could still sense the uneven sprawl of branches that reached for her as if desperate to comfort her.
In her dream, Loma wanted to accept the tree's embrace, even if the tree was poison. But it hurt too much, and she always ended up refusing.
She touched her cheeks to discover them wet with tears.
The knock came again, this time totally dispelling the ghost-scent of needles and bark. The evening sun warmed her bedroom through the gauzy flutter of curtains, telling her she'd wasted almost the entire day.
