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Charlotte was nine when she ate her first dream. She didn't mean to.

It was late on a moonless night. She danced into her parents' bedroom, unable to sleep, and she moved, quiet as the still, night air, to the foot of her mom and dad's bed. She paused for a moment, before softly crawling into the space between them. She was scared, unable to stop thinking about the movie. She saw it when she closed her eyes. She told herself it wasn't real, but, alone in the dark, it was.

She nuzzled up against her father reassured by his scent and warmth. She felt safe. The ghosts of the night departed as quickly as they came. They wouldn't mess with her father, she knew. Charlotte smiled, content, and softly ran her hands through her father's messy, rough hair. She felt sleep edging closer. Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier until finally she could fight no longer, dropping her hand as her eyes slid shut and sleep took hold of her.

Except it didn't.

Her eyes snapped open to see trails of light between her resting hand and her father's sleeping brow. Opalescent threads trembling and swaying fragilely to the beat of her father's soft breaths. Charlotte shot up to a sitting position. Her mother, Anna, shifted and turned, but didn't wake. Charlotte slowly moved her hand. She felt a gentle tug. The threads intertwined themselves about her fingers stickily like strands of cotton candy on a hot summer day. She shook her hand. No good. She shook harder. She shook and cried silently and shook, but the strands wouldn't shake lose.

Realizing that all of the shaking had only pulled more of the stuff out, she held her hand still. Her eyes burned in the way that eyes do when sleep-heavy eyes cry. She saw, that even without moving her hand, the strands still unspooled from her father's head. She sat unmoving and watched. She didn't wait long before she felt the tug of a taught line going slack and she saw the tail end of the long wisps hanging limply from her fingers. As she sat motionless, staring at her hand, her emotions shifted gradually from anxiety to curiosity.

She brought her hand to her face to see more clearly. The room was dark but the strands glowed with a gentle, silver luminescence. She felt a strange hunger as her hand neared her face. Dinner was only a few hours ago. She had apricots and cream for dessert. Her favorite. This feeling was different. It was deeper inside than hunger. She cautiously touched her tongue to a piece of the strand wrapped about the back of her hand. Delicious. She smiled and continued, cautiously, nibbling at the long strands wrapped about her fingers, her pace quickening until it was all gone.

Her father grimaced and turned in his sleep. She felt his arm. Cool to the touch. She got up and crept out of bed as silently she came.

As she exited the bedroom, she remembered, hazily, the movie and the nightmares that haunted her. She smiled and gently laughed. How silly that she be scared by such things. She made her way down the hall back to her room, darkness fleeing from her all the way. When she slept, she dreamt fantastic dreams, dreams real enough to touch and hold, dreams of a life she never lived, and when, hours later, her mother cried and cried when her father didn't wake, Charlotte felt content knowing that his memories would always live on.