It was a strange thing, to be sure, being many places at once.
If forced to account for them all, truly, Morpheus was not certain he could do it. Counting the ways he split himself, copied himself to weave dreams... there were too many of them. But even so, there were those whose calls always gave him pause, no matter how far away he physically was.
Dream.
Morpheus felt it, more than heard it. It was like a tug, a hand closing on the back of his neck, hair standing on end. He set some of what he was weaving to autopilot, or silently handed it off to his brothers, following the tug. It was like unraveling a loose string on a sweater until the entire thing was nothing more than yarn.
It didn't take long to find the other end.
In mere moments after Nanshe called for him, Morpheus was standing behind her, reflection in front of her, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, head tilted.