He knows the dream was about her. Other than that, the only remnant of it is the lingering feeling of warmth, a joy inside him which feels entirely out of place with no recollection of the cause.
Grasping with his mind at the fading strings of memory, he searches for the images that must have been there. What picture had he seen? What fantasy could bring this feeling of nearness?
But no image comes.
The feeling lingers like the heat of a sun near setting, steady and patient. Long enough to bask in.
Again he digs in his mind for the memory of the dream, coming up empty and dissatisfied.
Such joy seems unearned to him in that moment.
So he closes his eyes, lays his head back, and savors the feeling.