Do not go lost into that mute sky.

She takes his hand, this innocent, simple creature and they walk into the dark night where barely any dare travel. It is cool; a light breeze slides under the hair at the back of his neck. It is not unpleasant. Not yet.

"Where are we going?" he wonders. But she just lifts a finger to her lips.
"Silence," is her only response.

He doesn't understand her. She never asked him to before now.

He is incandescent and full of gold. She is vague and full of charcoal. They are oppositions to one another. Yet he finds it in himself to trust her and she, him. That is why she has taken his hand. That is why he does not turn back. His fingers fit easily in the spaces of hers. Comfortable.

Deeper into the night they go. Where the black is ink and the shadows are light. She has told him little of what awaits them, only that she has to show him. He has wondered what is in her dark hours for so long. He can barely hold in his excitement.

But there is apprehension, also. She is so important, so beautiful to him. He worries at the horrors they may face. Horrors of her own mind's creation. She sees his worry and does not try to reassure him. She does smile at him, small and quiet. There is little she can honestly do.

And she does want honesty. Oh, she has never wanted it so in her life. She has been content, but he has stirred her. Mixed up her insides and taken some for himself. She can't bare to let him away for long, knowing he has those parts of her.

She wants him to understand the other parts he does not yet hold before he can take more.

Soon their walking has led to their destination. They have arrived and what he finds there, in this place of her own design, is frightening. More frightening than he can begin to comprehend. But she stays with him, holding his hand. She wants him to understand. She wants him to know.

He tries. It is not easy, but he is earnest.
Eventually, he does.

And when it is over and the nightmares have all been met, they depart. Back to the light, back to his day. He understands her now in ways he never has. They have grown together, grafted branches twisting and gnarled.  Just before they arrive at morning, she turns to him with words burning her tongue.

"Thank you for the stars," she whispers.

"You deserve them," he replies.