Eventually

When she woke up, the mountains were gone.
Get Well Soon, read the card by her bed.

All fictions are species
Of unreliably
Omniscient narration.

The sun stirred the curtains with soft light.
Where on Earth could the mountains have gone?

It seemed like nothing had replaced them,
Nothing much at least—featureless plains.

Except for memories,
Fancy’s cupboard is bare
Of distinctive spices.

She turned to the window and whispered,
I always knew you would disappear.