The Crickets

When I woke, the sound of chirping was all I could hear.  The cicadas and their harsh piercing croak, and the crickets with their softer more subtle trilling.  The room in which we occupied was dimly lit.  I rolled over to wake Asan, only to find that, we were sleeping on the hard wooden floor.  To my utter surprise, there was nothing else.  There was nothing of the plush pillows, the mattress of down fit for a king, the rich wall hangings, not even the tiger skin throw was in it's proper place where once was the foot of the bed.  Not even crumbs from our sugar cookies and milk we gorged ourselves with last night remained.  The only object that had not scampered was a solitary candle flickering in defiance of the barren wasteland that once had been a bedroom.
"Asan. . ."
"Asan, wake up!"
"Hur?  mmpphh."
"It's gone, everything is gone."
"mmmrrmmm..."
"Wake up!"
He did not wake.