I was simply heading home; I am quite sure of that, although whatever I was heading home from was not particularly important. And I do not recall this place being here. I tuck my package more firmly under my arm--the brown paper rustles a little--and step inside. The walls or the paint or the light itself is somewhat dappled... it is an unusual effect but not an unpleasant one.
I find I am standing by a table. There is a wine glass and a white plate, both empty, and Linnea's jawbone is resting neatly on the folded napkin. But there is no cutlery, and I look around, hoping to see someone. I find myself strangely unwilling to raise my voice, as if there were people on all the stairs that I could not see.
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Date: 2011-02-17 01:48 am (UTC)I find I am standing by a table. There is a wine glass and a white plate, both empty, and Linnea's jawbone is resting neatly on the folded napkin. But there is no cutlery, and I look around, hoping to see someone. I find myself strangely unwilling to raise my voice, as if there were people on all the stairs that I could not see.