Tobias presses himself against the cold window frame, breath fogging the glass in small clouds. The light threads between the trunks — too low for a lantern held by hand, too steady for a will-o'-wisp. It bobs and weaves, tracing the same path the dream-creature ran, until it comes to rest at the base of the enormous oak he somehow recognises from his sleep. There it hangs, perfectly still. Then something small perches on a gnarled root, no bigger than his fist, and turns to face the cabin window. Two violet eyes glow faintly in the dark, like foxfire caught in glass. They hold his gaze for one long heartbeat. Tobias does not breathe. The tiny figure raises one hand — greeting, or warning, he cannot tell — and the light dims to the faintest ember.