Tears fall and are caught by the wind to join the sands he scatters, swept along in the creation of dream after dream. Morpheus is crying.
Not far from Lima, in the misty dust of southern Peru, a tiny child stirs in his sleep. In his dream he is dancing with other children, beating the ground and then jumping as high as he can, shouting to the sky as if to call its attention. Suddenly in the sky there is water, falling onto his skin and into his eyes, and he screams in bewildered terror. He has never seen or heard of rain; he will wake shaking and crying, unable yet to explain to his father what is wrong.
Deep in the heart of the city, she turns over and pulls the covers closer about her, drifting into dreaming again. His arms are around her waist, close as she watches the world through the broken glass of a thin gothic window. She feels him shake against her, and turns, to find the impossible: silver trails of tears on his white skin. In all the time she has been with him he has never known how to cry; he seems as incredulous as she is. She will wake with tears of her own.
Across the world, farmers dream of neverending rains destroying their history, their present, their future. Young men dream of rain on the roads, that slip of the wheels that takes away their control, the crash, the screams of their children. A girl dreams of drowning, water in her throat as she tries to cry for help, water in her eyes, her lungs, burning. Flood. Ice. Tears. Morpheus is crying.
His cloak swirls in the rising wind, and his black robe shifts and changes, closing around his skin; black diamonds on black, tight and shimmering. He stretches out one hand to take up the tiny glass sphere.
The dream is dead, and there is no need to look at it again; it has not changed since yesterday. Dust and broken glass, blood and white lead, tattered cloth and ashes. Even as he lets it drop it is dissolving, and by the time it reaches the ground it is nothing but sand, more sand, to be taken up and used again on another night.
But not this night.
The wind has died, and this night Morpheus is crying, and the Dreaming is in mourning, and the sand lies silver and still.