Eyes wide he glanced at the hand holding the mirror. The gnarled fingers, wrinkled and old, were no more. The strong hands of youth now held the mirror.
Quickly he rushed to the spring, examined his countenance.
Cronus had relented.
He heard a distant rumble of thunder, glanced anxiously to the sky.
A voice, strong and yet soft, reached his ears.
"Well done, my son." He knew the sojourn had ended.
And then he heard the words again. "Well done, my son." and felt a hand shaking him.
"Yes, well done. The firewood you were to gather, where is it?
Do you know the sun is near its zenith, and you still lie abed."
"Yes, mother, I shall fetch it quickly."
He shook his head. Only a dream? He looked at his hand, the hand of youth. As he sat on the edge of his bed his foot brushed an object.