He wakes up, sweating profusely although the night is cold. Rain weeps down the bedroom window and the wind howls tunelessly.
It has been two years since she died and he will never forgive himself. He loves her so much but it's too late. Now he sleeps alone and unloved remembering the best of times, with anguish etched on his tortured face. He reaches for the whisky bottle but it is empty.
Almost every night she returns to life again, the most beautiful dreams are the worst nightmares.