I dreamed about F. and me going to a village of half-timbered houses which was located on a hill with a small river running at the bottom of it. For some reason, she went to look for the place-name sign because she needed to take a picture of it which was itself weird as F. nearly never snaps pictures and it also wasn’t located at the entrance as these signs normally are. After we split up, I wandered through the village and there was no one to be seen and the houses themselves seemed all very old and battered and not exactly welcoming; yet it was a perfect summer day and I enjoyed the walk. One of F.’s cats was also there but didn’t pay attention to me nor did I pay much attention to the cat. There was a butterfly flying around and I knew that it was very important for F. and I didn’t want anything to happen to it but somehow I still ended up catching the poor thing — the creepy thing just was that I quite literally broke the butterfly right in the middle: one part dropped down and was dead, but the other part still kept flying. It only frightened me because I was afraid of what F. would say if she’d see what happened and not because it actually did happen. And then I realized that my hands were covered in strange liquid which could only be the blood of the butterfly and that grossed me out so much that I woke up.