"Scrubb, Scrubb..." she said, and clenched her fists to try to not let her voice get wobbly again, "I know it was real, and it would help me so much, back here, if I could only remember it as real as it was, especially... you know... Aslan, what he said, and how it felt to be with him, and I try, I really try, and I just can't; it's all getting blurry in my mind."

Eustace grimaced, because that was what time did: it settled down like fine dust over memories of things and times and meetings once so clear and sharp and precious, little by little, and eventually was going to turn everything, he supposed, into a grey blur.

"I think," he began, heavily, "that it's just the way things are right now, and we just have to put up with it, but - do you remember that sleeping giant, called Time? - I sometimes think that when he wakes, and stands up in the open air, really awake, then maybe all the dust will fall off, and the precious things will come sharp and clear and alive again, maybe."


(and thanks for the prompt! :) )