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“There were no grown-ups in the room, evidently they had all run out of the apartment. ‘They’re breaking the windows,’ the boy said and called: ‘Mama!’ No one answered, and then he said: ‘Mama, I’m afraid.’ Margarita drew the little curtain aside and flew in. ‘I’m afraid,’ the boy repeated, and trembled. ‘Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, little one,’ said Margarita, trying to soften her criminal voice, grown husky from the wind. ‘It’s some boys breaking windows.’ ‘With a slingshot?’ the boy asked, ceasing to tremble. ‘With a slingshot, with a slingshot,’ Margarita confirmed, ‘and you go to sleep.’ ‘It’s Sitnik,’ said the boy, ‘he’s got a slingshot.’ ‘Well, of course it’s he!’ The boy looked slyly somewhere to the side and asked: ‘And where are you, ma’am?’ ‘I’m nowhere,’ answered Margarita, ‘I’m your dream.’ ‘I thought so,’ said the boy. ‘Lie down now,’ Margarita ordered, ‘put your hand under your cheek, and I’ll go on being your dream.’ ‘Well, be my dream, then,’ the boy agreed, and at once lay down and put his hand under his cheek.” — Mikhail Bulgakov