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Twenty-nine years he's been here. There's a calendar he marks the days on, though he can no longer (chooses not to) read the smudged dates and years. Just the fat black Xs piling up.
Twenty-nine years, and his dream-body feels each of them, but time passes differently in dreams. Each minute, each hour, each day, each week - they are as timeless and shifting as the leisurely waves lapping the shores, washing up and receding over and over, leaving nothing changed behind them.
Twenty-nine years he's been waiting for someone to find him.
Twenty-nine years, and she comes for him.
She's not at all like his memories, or the projections he occasionally glimpses. (That's how he knows.) When she washes up on shore her wet hair is plastered to her face and she coughs up water. He almost doesn't (remember to) move, to help her, his surprise and curiosity arresting him. Then her body convulses and he is on his feet - his motions jerky, half-forgotten and stumbling, he rushes toward her small figure and, surprising himself, puts his hand on the back of his neck.
Are you okay? he asks, gazing down at her. He's talked down here, of course, if only to hear the illusion of someone's voice, someone talking, someone shouting, someone raging. But it still feels rough and shaky when he speaks.
Instead of responding, she looks up at him. Arthur? The sound of her voice is shocking; he squeezes her shoulder for reassurance. Hers or his own, he doesn't know.
It's me. Already the fogginess of the dream world is starting to lift around them. She is the brightest, clearest thing he can see. She blinks, and he can see every miniscule drop of water on her eyelashes. Under her gaze he can feel himself changing, reverting. The gray hairs fade; his skin tightens; he stands up straighter. She smiles tremulously and reaches up to rub her thumb against his cheek.
Are you ready to leave?
Yes, he breathes, and together they link arms to walk toward freedom.