Now that the time had come to actually speak of the things he dreamed about, Edgar wasn't particularly enthused. How did he put into words the images his mind threw at him on a nearly nightly basis? He considered his choice of words for a long moment in silence then sighed heavily.
"I always see my wife," he reconfirmed, "and she's usually at a distance. It doesn't matter if I'm standing in a crowd and I think that I see her ahead of me.. or if she's literally ahead of me. She's always out of my reach, and then something will happen and I'll look away--like a glass shattering, or someone saying something--and when I look back, she's gone," he thought the implications of that were pretty clear. "It's always the same pattern.."
The man frowned and rubbed at his forehead idly, "And then this one dream.. I think .. I.. I'm looking at myself in a mirror. And then she'll appear in it, too. Behind me, of course.. then the glass breaks. I look behind me, and she's gone."