[ CW ] `` I dream about you once in a while . You suppose that means anything ? ''

Rain threatened to fall in the early morning. The car window bore a misty layer as it passed through the heart of a city still trying to wake. The opacity of winter ’ s breath cast the reflection of Verne ’ s eyes on the pane, themselves cast towards the gray above. The buildings of his boyhood home had long since forgotten the trek to adulthood of that dark-haired child. The calls of a distant university had been far closer than those of a younger self, riding a shabby bike through legions of office workers and laborers; clearer than the increasingly sparse calls to a Brooklyn apartment where his pictures still hung with pride. 
 
 A reclaimed landfill broke the rows of brick townhomes by the road. Somewhere beneath that mound of greenery was an ocean of discarded waste. Yet the blades of grass had captured a crystalline bounty, using it as a weapon to ensnare what light broke through the shield above, and firing it back at whatever dared look. Commuters that filled the New York streets were free to ignore the assault, but for one who knew that stretch of highway by the glint of dozers shuffling refuse amid a stench that made the Hudson weep, defensive apathy afforded no protection. 
 
 Verne ’ s gaze drifted to the crest of the artificial hill, his narrowed lids struggling to maintain focus. As the car followed the gentle curve, the wall beyond rose from the edge of the frosted park. More bricks, accented by aged iron. The wrought gates were already open and the car knew exactly where to go. 
 
 The driver opened the door, letting a blast of frigid air consume the vehicle ’ s interior. For the first time since O ’ Hare, Verne felt something familiar. His coat was tested by the breeze, but held heat enough to not require additional aid. His pants, however, were not so suited. The chill seemed to freeze his legs in place. The driver caught sight of his passenger ’ s delay and offered a shoulder for support. Verne ’ s hesitant arm circled the driver ’ s back as they continued the journey on foot. 
 
 The plot was back nearly against the wall. In the distance, the cityscape peered back through the fog, the faces of buildings faint as vapor. Two monuments cracked through the earth, one with etchings browned by time, the other clean as the day it was carved. Verne could recognize the names but little else. The only family he had ever known stood before him, and all he could see was his past, set in stone. 
 
 “ I dream about you once in a while. You suppose that means anything? ” he confessed to those distant memories. 
 
 “ Who are you talking to? ” the driver asked. 
 
 Verne glanced down at the marble slabs, then to the wall, then the world behind it. 
 
 “ Does it matter? ”
