Page 35 of Evan

Henry's eyes twinkle with mischief. "Well, now that you mention it, I might have an idea. How would you like to try your hand at dream weaving?"

My celestial form practically vibrates with excitement. "Really? You think I'm ready for that?"

Henry nods, his expression turning serious. "I do. But remember, Betty, dreams are a delicate thing. We can offer guidance and show possibilities, but we cannot make the choice for Evan. The final decision must be his and his alone."

I nod solemnly, understanding the gravity of this new responsibility. "I understand, Henry. I'll be careful."

"I know you will," he says, his faith in me clear in his warm smile. "Now, let's get you prepared for this new adventure."

For the next few celestial moments (time works differently here in heaven), Henry guides me through the intricacies of dream weaving. It's a complex art, requiring a delicate balance of influence and restraint. We can't control dreams entirely—that would infringe on agency—but we can plant seeds, offer gentle nudges, create an environment conducive to revelation and growth.

As our lesson ends, I feel both exhilarated and humbled by this new ability. Henry places a hand on my shoulder, his touch infusing me with confidence and purpose.

"Remember, Betty," he says, his voice filled with warmth and wisdom, "your greatest tools are not these celestial abilities, impressive though they may be. Your greatest tools are love, compassion, and faith. Trust in those, and you can't go wrong."

I nod, feeling a swell of gratitude for this gentle mentor who has guided me so patiently. "Thank you, Henry. For everything."

With a final smile and a wave of his hand, Henry sends me back to Earth. I materialize on the outskirts of Evan's farm, the cold night air a shock to my senses after the warmth of the celestial realm. The farm is quiet, peaceful under its blanket of snow. In the distance, I can see a single light burning in the farmhouse window.

As I make my way towards the house, my mind is already working, planning how best to use my new ability to help Evan. Perhaps a dream of the farm in full summer bloom, to reinforce his growing appreciation for this place? Or a vision of a future Christmas, with Molly and Chad by his side, to nurture the seeds of love and family that are already taking root?

The possibilities are endless, and for a moment, I feel almost overwhelmed by the responsibility. But then I remember Henry's words. Love, compassion, faith. With those as my guide, I know I can't go wrong.

I pause at the edge of the porch, looking up at the star-filled sky. The beauty of it takes my breath away - a beauty I might once have taken for granted, but which now fills me with awe and gratitude. In this moment, I understand exactly what Evan is learning: that the most precious gifts are often the ones right in front of us, if only we have the wisdom to see them.

With a silent prayer, I enter the farmhouse, my celestial form passing through the walls as easily as if they were mist. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with the scent of spice and evergreen. Chad’s picture of the three of them on the tree farm hangs from the refrigerator. The sight brings a smile to my face.

As I continue to craft the dream, I feel Evan's breathing slow and deepen. He's drifting off, my celestial influence gently guiding him towards sleep. I watch as he exhales, Morgan's card slipping from his fingers to flutter to the floor.

With Evan now asleep, I can fully immerse myself in the dreamscape I'm creating. I pour all my love for this place, all my hope for Evan's future, into every detail. The dream expands, showing not just one perfect summer day, but a montage of moments:

Evan and Molly dancing under strings of fairy lights at a summer festival in town.

Chad's first day of school, with Evan and Molly walking him to the bus stop together.

A quiet evening by the fireplace, the three of them reading books and sipping hot cocoa.

Evan teaching Chad how to build a birdhouse, their laughter mingling with the sound of hammering.

Molly surprising Evan with a homemade birthday cake, her eyes shining with love.

Through it all, I weave a sense of contentment, of belonging, of a life rich with love and purpose. I show Evan the beauty of the life he's building here, the depth of the connections he's forming, the joy that comes from being truly rooted in a place and a community.

As the dream reaches its crescendo, I add one final scene: Evan, Molly, and Chad decorating the Christmas tree in the farmhouse. The room is warm and cozy, filled with the scent of pine and the sound of carols playing in the background. Chad places the star on top of the tree, perched on Evan's shoulders, while Molly looks on, her face glowing with happiness. As Chad comes down, they all embrace, a perfect family moment captured in the twinkling lights of the tree.

I step back, both literally and figuratively, from the dream I've woven. It's beautiful, filled with love and possibility. But as I watch Evan's sleeping form, I'm struck by a sudden doubt. Have I gone too far? Shown too much of what I want for him, rather than what he truly needs to see?

I shake off the doubt, reminding myself of Henry's teachings. This dream is just a suggestion, a glimpse of possibility.

The choice remains Evan's alone.

As the night wears on, I keep vigil over Evan's sleep, gently guiding his dreams when they veer towards anxiety or doubt. It's delicate work, requiring constant attention and adjustment. But as I watch the tension gradually ease from Evan's face, replaced by a small, contented smile, I feel a sense of accomplishment.

Just before dawn, I sense a shift in Evan's consciousness. He's starting to wake up. I quickly withdraw my influence, allowing his mind to transition naturally from the dream world to waking reality.

Evan stirs, lifting his head from the pillow with a soft groan. He blinks, looking around the room with a slightly dazed expression. He sits up and stretches before his eyes fall on Morgan's business card, lying forgotten on the floor, and I hold my breath (metaphorically speaking, of course) as I wait to see his reaction.

To my surprise and delight, Evan leans over, picks up the card and, after a moment's hesitation, tucks it away in the nightstand drawer instead of staring at it. It's a small gesture, but it fills me with hope.

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