She was real, though, real somewhere out in the world and the light. If he could have wished for anything in his life, it would have been for her to be real, and she was. He had heard her laugh on the air and not in his head, that marvelous, marveling sound, and seen the tender, sacred curve of her face and her mouth. She would not end when he did. He had been granted his wish; he had been infinitely lucky. He could bear this: this did not compare to the gift he had been given. This did not matter at all.
