Hob dreamed last night. He doesn't remember much of it, but he knows that the upshot is that Morpheus won't be meeting him at the pub in 95 years.
He does remember one thing, though. There was a man, like Morpheus, but… younger, somehow. More innocent. Dressed in white. He said he was Dream, and for some reason Hob believed him without question, though the Dream Lord he knew is dead.
The man spoke to Hob, after the funeral, and called him friend. It was oddly comforting, somehow. As if Morpheus wasn't gone at all. And Hob knows that in a way, he isn't.
Hob hopes it isn't just Morpheus' existence that has kept him alive all these years. He's afraid that if that were the case, he would only have a mortal lifespan now. And more surely than anything, Hob knows he doesn't want to die.
Not yet. After all, he's got a new friend to get to know, hasn't he?
Hob thinks that perhaps he'll be waiting in the pub in 95 years, after all. And who knows, maybe the new Dream Lord will be there to meet him.