Three sweeps is a long time to be stuck in a failed session.
"Cronus", he whispers to you in the dark one night, when the sight of his blank white eyes still causes your stomach to twist unpleasantly and the unmoving dream bubbles are still more fascinating than oppressive. "I’m starting to forget things."
Your fingers tighten around his of their own accord. “What things?”
One sliver of moonlight paints a pink streak down his back, which is bare and sticky beneath your arm; sticky with sweat that is not his alone. The silence before his reply is so thick that you begin to wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but when he speaks at last, his voice is earnest and afraid and very much awake.
"What were we doing just before we died, Cronus?"