The figure sat in the open window, a warm summer breeze pushing past him into the room beyond. All was quiet at this time of night, between the early morning workers and the people on night shift heading home. Not a single car passed by the house, nor a person strolling in the warm night. The only sounds that could be heard were the cicadas in the long grass that bordered the front of the small house. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked at something that had disturbed its slumber but it provided no danger to the figure that perched silently on the windowsill.

He stays there for a few precious seconds, simply watching the rooms occupant, before lightly placing his bare foot onto the worn carpet and tip toeing to the sleeping girls bedside.

The room was small and cramped but the girl was happy. The wallpaper was a tasteless yellow and the carpet a dull brown with threads coming away from the edges. Strewn about the room were sketchbooks and crayons, loose pages the product of the girls creativity. He bent down to pick one up, a picture of a boy with yellow hair and yellow eyes, a big grin on his face as he appeared to be dancing. He smiled at the picture, looking in the direction of the full length mirror.

A boy of perhaps eighteen years old looked back, golden amber eyes warm and shining with youthful curiosity. His hair that swept across his forehead was white blonde like the sand in Mexico, one stray strand standing on its own across the top of his head. His skin was a golden brown, a smattering of gold shimmering on his shoulders, cheeks, hands, elbows and feet. The only clothing he wore was a pair of loose fitting white paints that came just below the knees, golden threads tying the bottoms closed around his legs. A golden scarf was threaded through the belt loops and tied in an uneven bow at his back, small golden bells hanging off the ends.

The crayon drawing was a good likeness considering how young the girl was and what limited colours she had. He could tell that she was going to grow up to be talented.

The girl shifted slightly, the soft sound of her skin against the bed sheets slashing through the silence. The figure remained still, cautious of the possibility that she may awaken any moment. He gently lay the drawing back where he found it and leaned closer to the child. Pursing his lips he blew a small wisp of golden smoke onto her face. A smile spread across her youthful face and she sighed happily, her dreams becoming filled with her favourite things. He smiled as he saw himself dance into her dreams, a plum in his hand.

Pushing lightly at the ground with the energy in his feet, the figure rose several inches from the cheap carpet and drifted slowly back to the windowsill, one eye glowing gold as it kept watching the events of the girls dream.

When he was perched once more as he had been before, he closed his eyes for a few moments. He didn't want to keep watching for too long because it was always tempting to watch the whole dream, and he had many more people to make it to before morning came.

With one final smile at the small girl, the figure let out a puff of air and rode the current out of the window and into the clear night sky.

The air was cooler up there, a slight chill raising goose-bumps on his bare arms and torso and small droplets of moisture biting at him as he sped across the starry night.

Everything was so beautiful when viewed from a distance. Way up there among the clouds he could see everything, feel everyone's sleeping minds. He felt the drowsy consciousness's pawing at the air, awaiting his arrival so that they could experience more pleasant dreams and an ultimately better sleep. The figure brought his arms in closer to his sides so that he began to tilt back towards the earth and the people below at a steady pace. He could slow time further if need be, but he liked to do everything as it came naturally. He would rather not tamper with time more than necessary.

He felt a dark tug to his left and turned his gaze towards the feeling. There was a frail consciousness reaching up with a feeble energy, desperate for some relief. He turned his shoulder in the direction of the consciousness and sped down to a small window. Looking inside revealed a sparsely furnished room, plain and clinical other than the flowered quilt that was laid over the lap of an elderly man. His brow was furrowed in agitation and his fingers were curled into a fist.

With a sad feeling heavy in his heart, the figure slipped open the latch with a thread of golden dust and climbed in the window. A quick glance around the room revealed that the old man was all alone, no personal affects other than one black and white photo of a young woman on the bed stand. There was no sign that anyone ever came to visit him other than an empty bin and a freshly cleaned smell, indicating that his only visitor was here because of their job.

His eye began to glow as he peeked into the old man's dreams, that same sadness becoming more potent as he began to watch.

The old man was alone. He was so incredibly alone since his wife died and he had never had any children. His dreams were filled with running. The old man would be back in his younger self, running after his wife who he could never reach. Each time he thought he had gotten close enough to touch her and she would simply blow away on the wind.

He couldn't watch for much longer, the incredible loneliness in the old man's dream world was crushing him. Without hesitation he leaned forward and blew a gentle breath of golden air onto the old man's twitching eyes. Almost instantly he felt the dreams calm and the old man relaxed, a small smile stretching his weary face and his fingers flattening at his sides. The figure smiled in satisfaction as he watched the old man finally catch his wife and bring her into a warm embrace, whispering "I love you, I always will" over and over as they both smile and hold each other.

Back out the window and into the night air, the figure sails on the breeze and watches the dreaming people below. He always felt detached from everything when he was so high up, yet he was flying amongst the reaches of consciousness. He was immersed in the dreams of the families slumbering in their homes, feeling everything that they felt. Loving as they did, laughing as they did, crying as they did, becoming angered as they did. When he felt negative emotion he drifted into the room that the dreamer occupied and blew all of the happiness that he could muster into their subconscious, which in turn affected their dreams.

The figure spun several times, enjoying the pleasant dreams around him. The cloth belt that he wore jingled softy as the bells that hung from the ends of the silk were jostled by the movement. He hummed to himself, dancing in the wind. He wished he had a plum to snack on.

His smile dropped and his balance was knocked off center by an unexpected force. He flailed in the air for several seconds, arms pin wheeling and feet kicking at nothing before he finally caught the wind once more. He looked around himself in confusion. He had never experienced something like that before. When he had first learnt how to fly, he had lost his balance a few times just as anyone would have, but something had hit him with force. A black shadow that stabbed at the sky, standing out amongst the gentle pawing of the dreaming people.

Curiosity killed the cat they say, but the figure could not die. So he tilted his shoulder, angling himself down towards the building that the piercing darkness was coming from.

It was a large and very old brick building, a standard oblong shape on a section that took up a whole block. At three stories high it stood out amongst the houses that surrounded it and the grassy field behind it stretched on for quite a distance before a tall grey stone wall closed it off from the streets and the other buildings. There was a playground with a swing set that looked barely usable and a slide that was once red but was now faded to a dull orange, scratches covering its surface. A soggy teddy-bear had been left under the slide, waiting for its owner to return for it. The shadow was coming from the top floor on the western side of the building, the other streams of consciousness that were present were settled several rooms away from the darkness.

Coming down closer he saw the sign above the grand front door. 'Lord Irvine's Home of Wayward Souls'. He frowned at the title, unsure of what to make of it. He had seen plenty of orphanages before, some had dramatic names but this one seemed odd and it rubbed him the wrong way.

He peeked in a couple of windows but everything inside was an inky black. He could usually see in the dark but this place seemed to have a visible gloomy air about it. Perhaps the shadow was affecting its surroundings. He looked up at the stream of darkness extending towards the sky. Whatever it was, it was not good.

Skipping around the side of the building, using the warm breeze as a propellant, he came to a stop beside the window of the room that appeared to be the shadows origin. He pressed himself against the rough bricks and peeked in the window. The curtains were open and the light was on, but the occupant was nowhere to be seen. He came to stand squarely before the window, taking a better look around the empty room. It was as impersonal as the old man's room had been, except there was no colourful quilt or photograph. There was a bookshelf but it only housed a sparse array of books. The desk was clear other than a lined pad of paper on top with a pen. The drawers looked like they were full but he couldn't tell what was in them from outside.

Carefully and quietly he put his hand on the window and prepared to use a golden thread, only to see that it was already open a crack. Shoving his slender fingers in the gap, he grabbed hold and pulled the heavy frame up above his head. It scraped noisily along the flaking paint of the window frame and he froze, waiting for any indication that he had disturbed anyone. When nothing happened he folded himself into the gap, only just fitting in the window if he was completely curled in on himself.

He was about to place his foot down on the floor when he stopped, foot going still in mid air.

Below the window a teenage boy was sleeping in the fetal position. He was completely curled in on himself, arms wrapped around his middle as though he was trying to hold himself from exploding. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead by sweat and his face was pinched in pain. One of his feet was shaking and he was gasping in small breaths.

The figure stared down at him, unsure of what to do.

After a few seconds of simply watching and waiting, he stepped down from the windowsill and knelt next to the boy. He reached out a hand and touched the boy on the forehead, feeling the clammy skin and brushing some of the hair from his forehead. With a frown he wondered what he should do. His eye began to glow as he let himself look into the shadow that stretched from the boy.

He stopped immediately.

He hadn't liked it in there at all. It had been dark, an inky great cloud of black. There had been no light, just darkness. Fear, pain and anger. These all snapped at his limbs while he had been in there, grasping desperately at him in an attempt to squash the light. He had felt disoriented, pained and very afraid. He hadn't felt in control at all and it had made him sick to his stomach. The worst part was the voices. There had been a loud screeching, a terrible shrill scream that reverberated in the darkness and it had added to his discomfort, making him dizzy with the overload to his ear drums. Another voice had been under the scream, barely audible in comparison but just as terrible.

"Help me, it hurts."

The figure wiped a stream of moisture from his cheeks, surprised by the sudden tears on his own face. He looked down at the boy and blew a cloud of golden dust on his face and waited a few moments for a reaction. The smaller voice echoed in his mind.

"Somebody please."

The teenage boy didn't seem to be getting better. His face had not relaxed, no sign of a smile had appeared and he still held himself tightly. The figure placed his hand on his face, feeling the hot flesh and the tight muscles underneath. He thought about what he had seen other people doing when people slept. He doubted that drawing on his face or placing his hand in water would help at all, but he had seen people giving injections and putting their limbs in certain positions. He didn't have any syringes and he was a little squeamish about them anyway, so he tried replicating what he had seen the people do when they shifted their positioning. It proved difficult because the boy was so incredibly tense, it was nearly impossible to move him.

A small whimper escaped from the boys chapped lips and the figure jumped slightly. The quiet sound had shocked him on a strange level. It had been so pained, so desperate.

When the figure stayed still for several seconds, listening silently to the gasping breaths of the boy, he tried to think about what people had done about breathing troubles. He often saw machines hooked up to people but he couldn't bring one in here, let alone know how to use it. He had seen mothers rubbing their children's backs when they were crying. He'd seen others breathing in some kind of medicine from a tube.

Shifting closer, he moved his hand around to the boys back and began to rub in slow circles over where the lungs and diaphragm would be found. After a few seconds of rubbing it seemed to provide some form of relief because a rush of air blew from the boys mouth, warming the figures knee before a shaky intake of breath.

The boy sighed softly and his muscles seemed to relax which made the figure lean back and watch him intently, waiting to see if he would be okay. However after a few seconds the muscles and tendons in his leg tensed and it stretched out, the toes spreading wide, one of his arms doing the same. The figure leant away from the arm as it wobbled in the air. It looked as though the boy were reaching out for something and the figure found himself reaching up to place his hand on the boys, the touch feather light.

After one very long minute the boy relaxed again, his hand falling through the air but the figure caught it before it could make impact with the ground. He let the teenagers hand rest on his own, a pillow of flesh and bone. His breathing became regular after several moments and the figure put his free hand on the boys forehead, pushing his hair back once more.

A flutter of an eyelid made the figure freeze in place, fingers stopping in their feathery trail across the boys sweaty forehead. Several more flutters of the eyelids and they opened, the blue eyes unfocused, pupils dilated. They rolled up before the boy blinked again, summoning them back down and he squinted, trying to focus on the figure that knelt beside him.

He eventually gave up, his vision apparently not co-operating with him. He opened and closed his mouth several times, his tongue lolling heavily each time he did and the figure watched with a caring gaze. The boy let out a groan that the figure assumed was him trying to speak but it was coming out in a lifeless moan.

The boy frowned and licked his lips, eyes fluttering open once more. After blinking repeatedly to focus his vision, he finally managed to get out some words.

"Who... Are..?"

The figure kept on watching the boy as he tried to speak. He let his fingers curl around the teenagers own digits and shook his head, hoping that his smile was reassuring.

"Who.... Are you?" He finally managed to say. "I locked... My..."

The figure looked over at the door and sure enough the latch was turned, blocking entry to anyone who came looking for it. He looked back down at the boy.

"No one, just a Sandman."

The boys brows furrowed. He was perhaps sixteen with pale skin that looked like it barely ever met sunlight. His hair was black and it stuck to his forehead due to the sweat but the figure thought that it looked as though it would stick up in spikes when it was dry. His eyes were a dark blue, unfocused currently, but a nice colour. They were like the night sky when the first signs of light emerged, twilight blue.

"S-sandman?" He let out a shaky laugh. "I m-meant... Your name."

The figure leant back a little to think. He hadn't been asked for his name before. He didn't really have a name. He was just a sandman, he had no need for a name but now... Now he wanted one. He wanted a name so that he could tell it to this boy. He dug around in his mind for names he thought appropriate. A fairy tale and a nursery rhyme about dreams and sleeping came to mind so he gave himself a name from a mixture of the two.

"Hans." He said after a few moments of silence. "Little Hans Willie."

The boy smiled. "Th-thank you... Hans."