At the center of the garden of flowers and stones, there is a plaza and a large pit of smoldering black stones. When the Ribbon Man and I arrive, the first coffin is pushed down an incline, and the box bumps and rattles out into the center of the pit. The wood catches fire quickly, flames dancing merrily along the coffin top. Other flames lick at the corners of the box until it fractures and the sides collapse. Shards of glass spill onto the pit of black stones.

Instead of burning, they are transformed into arrays of light. Coherent enough to see images, histories that shimmer and contort through the haze of burning wood. Dream histories. Each coffin is filled with another viewpoint, another version of what might be. They fill up the sky over the pit—never ending, never stopping.

If the Oneiroi is where you go when you dream, where do you go when you dream within a dream? Is there another reflection? An endless progression of iterations, each one nestled within the one prior. Is this cycle infinite, or is it a loop? Eventually, is my dream of a dream of a dream just me dreaming?

The Ribbon Man nudges me, drawing me back to this dream, this iteration. "She's here," he whispers. "It is time."

She stands at the foot of the path, a man in white at her side. Yellow flowers have collected in the train of her black dress, and a veil of stars covers her head.

The priest (a cross of light overlaying his white vestments) raises his right hand and points at the swirl of dream history over the pit. His left, holding the black book, brushes against her dress. The assembled host take out their mirrors—their rings, their glasses, their necklaces, their beads—and reflect the light of the dream toward the bride. Her dress becomes blacker, and her stars become white fire.

I walk over to the bride and the priest. He beams at me, and I realize his smooth face is a mask. He opens his book (all the pages are black, too), and when he reads, the gathered host speak the words. "Matrimonium mortis et—"

Her veil flutters. It is almost impossible to see in the glare of her black dress, against the glitter of her fiery stars, but I see the fabric move. I see her lips move.

I remember what it is to kiss her.

I turn around, and catch the Ribbon Man's hand. He whines and struggles, but I am stronger. "Somnium," I say. I am the dream. I am the way.

The syringe drops out of his hand.