-Theresa- Dream.

The only thing she could remember was her fear of forgetting everything.

A wide open room.  High ceiling; bluish white walls.  Everything was a foggy glow; a haze drifted through the air.  This was it.  The empty space of her memory.

She sat at a table, staring at the blank wall, her back to the faceless people who began to pervade the room.  As they came in, they mulled around aimlessly, occasionally finding one another through the mist.  It was oppressively silent but for their whispers.

"Look at her.  Such a shame."

"Do you think she'll remember him?"

"She's lost all her memory.  Why would she?"

"How heartbreaking."

A stranger walked over and, to her surprise, sat by her.  She turned.  It was the first person with a face.

Somehow she knew his name without being told.  She'd heard it mentioned, of course, by the passing wanderers, but she had no reason to recognize him.  Yet she did.  Realization hit her like a bitter wind, giving her shivers.

It's him.

She stared at the young man, who looked back and grinned.  Not a hint of doubt was in his expression.  "You really don't remember a thing, do you?" he asked.

She was too tense to answer.  Yes, she knew who he'd been to her, in the life she'd lost.  But she only knew this from the rumors.  She didn't remember.

His deep brown eyes bore into hers, as if searching.  It was startling.  This boy knew her better than she did, quite literally.  And it was as if he could read her thoughts- the way his smile flickered as she tried to sort things out.  All of this was unnerving to her; she didn't trust anyone, not even herself.  Swallowing, she scooted away a couple of inches.  That smile . . .

"I don't remember a thing about you," she said, both to herself and the boy.

The slightest bit of sadness washed over his face, but he brushed it off.  Instead, he stuck out his hand.

"Jonathan Bishop," he said.

The girl paused, didn't offer her own hand.  "What's my name?"  She didn't honestly remember.

"Theresa."  He said it like a melody.  "Theresa Dunham."

And as she sat there, the young man told her all about who that used to be.  He carefully veered away from their history together, but told her about her own past life.  It was evident to the girl that this boy cared only about her, not whatever past they may have shared.  They talked, and slowly she opened up, keeping a wall up all the while.  The boy told her stories that made her laugh, and it was like warmth coursing through her veins.  She felt as if she were becoming herself again.  Whoever that used to be.

Long into the night, they shared their hearts, and the huge space around them grew dark.  Candles were lit.  More and more people began to fill the . . . ballroom.  Slowly, shyly, she grew to trust the boy, and his eyes were on her the whole time, watching it happen with joy.  He slid closer as they talked, then reached out and stroked her hair.  The girl froze.  It was the first time she could remember someone touching her.

"You look stunning in your dress," said the boy.  "Why aren't you dancing?"

She looked down.  She was wearing a gown the color of the sea, which cascaded down to her bare feet.  It seemed familiar to her, but she didn't remember ever being called beautiful.

The boy stood and extended his hand.  "Shall we?"

When the girl gazed out, she saw that the ballroom was now full of people with faces, dancing in pairs to the music of a string quartet.  It was a magnificent sight.  Awed, she stepped out and took the boy's hand, and they began to dance.

And it was the most beautiful thing to watch.  For they had made it.

The rescuer
and
the angel.