The dream was devoid of light and darkness. It was a world of mist and shadows, like the Shadow World was, but far less frosty, still lukewarm by the remnants of the former glory.
A dusty, empty room instead of a radiant sunflower garden formed within the dream. Julian wasn’t there, waiting, as usual with open arms or a smile. Not even sulking on a corner and wearing a pout. He wasn’t there at all.
There was something on the floor, scattered among the garbage. A scrap of cloth: flag with the initials R.F. on the middle.