Eidolon

Sunlight spills through the big, bright windows of the shop, sparkling on the little jars that line the shelves. Each one is labelled in the shop owner’s careful print: “A Sweet Dream” is written on one jar; the contents swirl iridescent in the afternoon light. Another, “A Nightmare” – the contents bubble and swirl, dark and somehow foreboding like fog pooling at your feet.

The shop owner looks as old as time, her fingers gnarled like the branches of ancient trees. She reaches for a small, glass container then turns to look at you — eyes sharp and blue as sapphires, darkening despite the brightness of the little apothecary.

“I have just the dream for you,” she murmurs, her voice somewhere between a lullaby and a low growl.

She cradles a tear shaped decanter in her hands, marked with a single word – “Forgotten.”