1 Work by noyade
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It made her sad that the voice never responded to her, never gave any sign of having heard her. She told herself that it would have been worse if he had responded. That way lay madness, delusion. Alan could not respond to her because Alan was dead. It would have been monstrous to replace him with an imagined husband, to comfort herself with a fake conjured up from her own mind while the real thing lay cold at the bottom of the lake. It was the sort of thing she could only forgive herself in dreams. She couldn't help what she dreamed, after all. And if, in the dream, she came to believe for a moment that she was really speaking to her husband, and that he was really speaking to her, seeing her, touching her — at least she would remember the truth when she woke up.