THE DOOR OF TEARS

Minutes, hours, eons later, and only once Andrea was emptied of all her tears, did something miraculous happen.

The silver tears stopped spreading around the dream version of their house. Each droplet changed direction and gathered inward, leaving dry spots on the floor, piling on top of each other and taking the shape of something solid. Something tall and rectangular, wavering but firm.

A door.

The door built of tears reflected the boy and girl who stood before it. Each with deep purple lines under their bloodshot eyes. Their hands entwined.

“Do you think it will take us to him?” Francis asked.

“The only way to know for sure is to walk through,” Andrea said. If the Sandman went to all this trouble to hide himself away somewhere he never thought Andrea would go and to make a door out of tears she had said she’d never cry, he’d better be waiting for her on the other side. He meant for these dreams to break her. Though she did, in some ways, break, Andrea felt stronger than ever for having gone through it all.

She reached a tentative finger into the door, felt the water tickle at her skin, then pushed her hand in farther. Dry air greeted her on the other side. She stepped through, followed by Francis.

They arrived, dry and unharmed, in the middle of the Sandman’s private dream. The room with the stage, where dream–Margaret Grace came to perform in front of nonexistent crowds. Where the lonely Sandman watched, unblinking, pretending his sister was still with him, even though he had created the lie of her himself.

The silhouette of the Sandman, with his pristine gray tuxedo and his plum hat, sat in the front row.

“I didn’t think you would come.” The Sandman stared straight ahead and spoke to them with a voice vacant of emotion. “I was sure you would choose to stay. If you’d like a different dream, Andrea, I trust that you still have the parchment. I can build you one that better suits you.”

Andrea reached into her pocket and handed Francis the object from inside it, motioning with her hands what she wanted him to do.

Francis nodded.

“My Margaret has just finished her show,” the Sandman continued. “She’ll be back soon, though, I assure you. Never before have you heard a voice so like the angels’.”

“I know,” Andrea said. She crept with light steps toward the Sandman while Francis did the same in the other direction. The pervading fog of the room wound around the chairs and the Sandman and the children. It rolled across the floor in choppy waves, licking Andrea’s and Francis’s ankles as they walked. “I’ve heard her sing.”

“Isn’t she magnificent?” the Sandman asked, his voice wavering, his eyes still fixed on the stage. Andrea had stepped in alongside him now and watched as a stream of tears shining bright as diamonds fell down his cheeks.

Andrea sighed. This man was awful, and wretched, and he had done some very terrible things. But he was also incredibly sad. The mystery and wonder she felt during their first encounter had long since faded, and pity now took its place.

“I’ve actually come to tell you I have chosen my dream,” Andrea said, patting the folded parchment in her pocket. “I screwed up, I should never have sent that dream family away, but I’m ready now. You were right. Going through those dreams proved to me that I came here to forget. I need a place I can forget. If you’re still willing to build it.” Andrea’s eyes no longer burned. They brimmed with tears, ready to fall freely. Francis’s shadow danced behind the Sandman, moving closer, slowly and without sound.

The exit to the dream formed on the side of the tent.

The Sandman broke eye contact with the stage, landing his gaze on her. “Why yes,” he said, his voice pleased, yet somehow also empty. “Of course. Who would want to live with so much pain?” He took note of the tears in Andrea’s eyes as his fingers wrapped themselves tightly around his gray umbrella. “Oh yes, dear child. Draw it, and in moments you can forget all your sadness for good. Live in a world where your grief and sorrow never existed. No more tears. A forever escape.”

Andrea moved her hand to her pocket, digging her fingers inside and grabbing hold of the paper.

Francis approached the Sandman from behind, cradling the final few grains of shimmering sand from Andrea’s vial inside his open palm.

Francis’s eyes met hers. He curled his fingers around the grains until his fingertips sparkled. Then he moved his hands in slow motion until they floated next to either side of the Sandman’s head. He swept his hands over the front of the Sandman’s face, sprinkling the sand into his unblinking eyes.

The grains soaked into the salty wetness of the Sandman’s tears. He gasped and reached one hand up, clasping a strong, desperate grip on to Francis’s wrist, but only for a moment. It soon fell limp beside him as his head slunk back and his jaw fell open, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth. The dream sand speckled his face like fine sprays of paint. If his eyes had been open, they would have stared blankly at the ceiling of the tent.

But he wouldn’t see the ceiling. Nor would he see Andrea as she peered into his face. He wouldn’t see Francis bolt away to join his sister. He wouldn’t see Andrea as she reached across the front row to swipe the precious gray dream-filled umbrella with its shining black key from his ice-cold hand.

No, he wouldn’t see those things.

Because the Sandman had fallen asleep.