Disclaimer: I don't own the Labyrinth.

Sometimes at Night

Sometimes, she remembers. Just before she falls asleep she remembers. The world around her fades, the snoring of her husband grows fainter. Her body relaxes, her breathing comes out more easily. Her eyelashes flutter, and the blurry faces – memories – come more solid, more real.

Should you ever need us.

She briefly thinks about her son and wonders how he's doing in the colleague. If he should need her, would he call her? She wonders if he needs her anymore. Her little boy is all grown up and adult now. For a while Sarah fears he would forget her like Sarah forgot them...

She shifts restlessly in her bed, awake now, trying to remember, worried. Did she forget something? The gnawing feeling is back, and Sarah comes aware of her husband's light snoring next to her. A twinge of jealousy pinches painfully as she marvels how he sleeps so restfully while she's still awake. Their son has left home but she misses him, and for some reason she's afraid he might forget her. Why isn't her husband worried? They have so much to worry about: the mortgage, meeting with the bank manager, all those invoices, and their son's education. She stares into the darkness, her heart beating loudly in her ears and all of those problems crushing and strangling her. Sarah stifles a cry, afraid and scared.

Then the leaves in a tree next to her window rustle softly, soothingly, and Sarah relaxes.

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath in, listening to the softly shifting leaves. A breeze coming through the open window tickles her neck. It feels almost like a breath that caresses her skin, teasing and soothing at the same time. And Sarah hears them again – voices and shouts, remembers the scent of dusty never-ending corridors. She smells moss-covered forest, bitter gunpowder, and a lingering taste of something sweet waters her mouth. She moves restlessly in her slumber, the echoes of her memories whispering, begging her to tell, Should you ever need us?

And Sarah remembers. She smiles and murmurs, almost asleep now, unaware of her own words, "But I do. I always do."

Then the sleep claims her. Sarah forgets, like she does every time, but they wait. Since they know that sometimes, she remembers.