Since there is no longer any need for caution, you immediately stretch and observe your surroundings in a more casual manner than a chipmunk eating an acorn. The hollow is barely large enough for you to stand straight, but its depth is deceptive. In fact, despite your squinting, you can't tell if it's a metre deep or five metres deep; like a horizontal pit, the hollow travels beyond your very sight. The walls are comprised of craggy edges, and you fold your hands over your elbows, lest you knock into one of the edges and slice open your arms.
As if the place is in fact a metallic substance, the light bounces of each facet like bored crystal. When you turn your head a certain way, the light stings right into the centres of your eyes. You raise a hand to block your view, but—curses!—you catch yourself against the nearest point from the rock.
Drawing your hand away, you drop into a crouch to examine the blood that prickles up in a neat line across your wrist. But a scratch, and you rub a thumb over to clear the moisture from your arm.
From this angle, you can survey the hollow differently. It looks different. Now the fractured light almost obscures your view—as if the way you look at the rock wall changes it.
You frown. That’s weird.
As you shake your shoulders and draw yourself up to your full height, you try and analyse the changes in the shape of the rock, even when your mind refuses to divulge quite what you are used to, providing you instead with the most preposterous and perplexing of plans concerning an otherness that does not quite place here. In the widest corner of the hollow, something catches your eye. You can’t make it out from here, but you edge forward, step by step. Maybe you need more use of caution than you anticipated.