Constructing dreams with witchcraft was simple for Sylvia Ritchie, so simple that she had nearly perfected it within a day.
She was so grateful for her quick learning.
Because an air raid had descended upon the battlefield and the male wizard she hadn't had the chance to truly consider whether it was love, died amidst the gunfire.
It was absurd, a wizard with the ability to cast spells, blown to death by a bombshell.
She laughed until tears soaked the hem of her dress.
From then on, only in her dreams at night, could she see the wizard again.
Even though he seemed mute, his eyes full of sorrow, motionless.
Sylvia Ritchie firmly believed he must be alive, living within her dreams, and she continually filled this dreamscape with various details.
Day after day, she observed everything in the world, today adding a blade of grass to her dream, tomorrow presenting a swarm of fireflies.
Pointed wooden houses, rain, and sunshine, the scent of flowers and flames.
