I saw him in my dreams, holding a picture of my long-dead sister. His hair fell in neat tresses to his kneecaps and floated lightly around his slim torso. The picture he held sat on my mantle; I wondered how this stranger found it.

“Do you want her back?” He asked, his lips oozing nectar.

I nodded. She had died years, over a decade, ago, but yes - I wanted her back. More than everything.

“Just ask,” he said.

“I want her back. Please bring her back,” I said, trying to avoid his intense gaze. He nodded, and the dream ended in a flurry of snowflakes and fire and blue flashes that made me nauseous.

When I woke up I saw the picture of her gone from my bedside table. Instead, there was a picture of me there. I shook the dream from my head, ruffled my hair, and went to the bathroom to wash my face.

In the mirror, I saw that I was no longer _me_ - but her. Visions of my funeral danced before my eyes like distant memories.

His voice laughed in my head. “Magic comes with a price. Are you willing to pay?”

I brought her back - with the price of my destruction.