Maybe he was dreaming, because there was no way this could be real. Rosalie shouldn't know that he couldn't talk about the curse, because no one who knew was capable of telling her that. She claimed to have learned it from a memory of him? It was far-fetched. He'd never heard of any kind of magic that could do that, and he didn't know how her memory would have any actual insight into the situation at all, beyond what she already knew, or why it would be bound by different rules than he was if it did. But she seemed to have gleaned at least one piece of information that was accurate. No, two things — she knew something about what he'd been trying to say that night. And no one would have been able to tell her that, because the only person who had ever known what he was trying to say in that moment was him.

This simply couldn't be real. It was a dream — a wistful, weird dream. A realistic one in some senses, with the light changes and the feeling of the sheets and everything, but a fantastical one in other senses. Rosalie in his bedroom. Rosalie understanding what he'd been trying to tell her about the curse. Rosalie, having cared enough to seek out a diviner and have a conversation with a memory of him. A fantasy.

He nodded dumbly. He wasn't sure what else to do.

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