That night I woke suddenly, palms sweating and mouth parched. I ran my tongue over my lips in a feeble attempt to summon moisture, all the while trying to slow the heavy drumbeat in my chest. I grasped my husband's hand in the darkness, desperate for some tangible representation of reality. He shifted in his sleep, but his breathing remained steady and deep. The pounding in my chest slowly subsided as I attempted, futilely, to stop my mind from replaying the dream that had triggered my panicked awakening. I was again transported to the windowless room with block walls where the dream had taken place. The room was devoid of any furnishings, save a metal folding chair upon which I was sitting, hands folded, legs crossed. The florescent lights and smell of sterility evoked images of a government-sponsored facility: mental ward or prison. Perhaps, both. I was waiting—for what, I was unsure. The feeling of dread that overtook me as I was sitting on that chair escalated until I thought I could bear it no longer. A buzzing began, a million voices whispering together. I couldn't make out what they were saying, at first, but then they became louder and louder, whispering nightmares into my ear. The words overwhelmed me, like a giant wave, sucking me under until I could no longer distinguish between the truth and the lies.
Then, out of nowhere, Miku appeared before me. I was unable to discern where or how she entered the room, but, nevertheless, she was there before me. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and her arms were outstretched, as if she were giving a passionate plea on my behalf. Her mouth was moving, but I was unable to hear her over the shouting voices.
I shouted, “Help me, help me!” But she only continued speaking words that I was unable to hear over the roar of the voices. And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she vanished, at which time I awakened.
Having replayed the nightmare, I released my husband's hand and silently padded down the hall to Jason's bedroom. His door was open, and I could hear the heavy whirring of the window fan. I crouched beside his bed, taking in his smell and resting my hand lightly on his dark hair. He smiled in his sleep, and I pulled his comforter up under his chin, tucking it around his small body. “Jason, I love you,” I whispered in the darkness before leaving the room.
The dream stayed with me, an ever-present feeling of dread lurking beneath the surface. One of those memories that, in my attempts to bury it, became all the more prominent. I tried not to think about it in a direct sense, but it was now ingrained as part of my psyche. I was not superstitious by nature, nor did I believe that dreams held any kind of special meaning, but I could not shake the sense of foreboding.
It was weeks before I saw Miku again. I knew that my attempts to avoid her were irrational, but, consciously or subconsciously, I stayed away from the places I was most likely to see her. One cannot avoid the grocery store forever, however, and it was there that Miku and I had our last impromptu conversation.
It seemed to me, looking back on that day, that there was a sense of gravity to our final encounter. But then again, maybe my recall of the conversation was tainted by information revealed later—it's hard to say. She crouched on his level and offered him a chocolate from her purse, which he took solemnly.
“What do you say Jason?” I prompted.
“Thank you,” he said shyly.
“Are you very happy today Jason?” Miku inquired.
He looked at the ground, scuffing his tennis shoe on the tile floor of the grocery store. The question seemed to confuse him. “I don't know,” he answered.
“Always remember that happiness is a gift,” Miku said. She rose then, and we exchanged perfunctory greetings before continuing our shopping. And that was the last time I saw Miku before the papers broke the story.
