-V-

He lifted a baby in each arm. He would raise them as his own, until they didn't need him anymore.
Then he would watch over them at night, and tell them such wonderful stories. After all, He knew better than anyone that what was to be created must first be dreamt.
Before walking away, he paused to cut his palm with a jagged shard of steel, and let his blood drip on the sprout and metal sphere.

He named this place the Field of Dreams. Centuries from now, children would ask why this particular field, the same as any other, was called his. No one would be able to give them a real answer, but it always would be known as such.

For now, The Sandman held the children close to him, and absorbed the first rays of sun to touch this planet in longer than he cared to think about, as some of the dust clouds began to dissapitate. His children, with no help from him, had managed to live through their own Armageddon, and so had his world.
He was awed, joyed, and most of all, proud.

Finally, he walked toward the future.