She sees you everywhere she looks. Everyone blurs into one person, becomes not just a stranger but the same stranger, an endless cut-and-paste sea of copies. Friends, family, colleagues; even the photos on her mantelpiece look like you. The next morning the first thing she does is check her own face in the mirror, expecting to see your eyes staring back. She sits across the aisle from you on the number fifty-two bus, same as always, but by the time she meets your eye and gives you a small half-smile, the dream has faded too much for her to recognise you.