Awake. Would that I could reassure myself by creeping, softly, to watch my children sleep. Touch their brow. Listen to their silent slumber. Know they are well.

Instead I stare at the dark. Afraid. Unsure even of where they are.

A man who calls himself "The Doctor" tells me they are ok. But they're not coming home. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. I'm not allowed to see them.

I want them with me. I long to feel them and watch over them. They tell me they're out there - I ache to have them in here.

I would rather hold them, dying, than stare into the black.