The child streched, yawned, and took in a bleary view of what lay before it. Grey. On instinct, after a moment's confusion, it focused on hearing what was around it, feeling the dry, still air sent swirling with each breath. The room was suddenly defined clearly in it's mind: a tiny one, because of the closeness it felt. A thin but once intricate rug in on corner, rolled tightly and propped up. A desk, a bag of... burlap? Too hard to tell. It moves on. Right where the open door is, a problem arises. it sounds open, but further investigation shows the texture of charred wood and the tinniest hint of chocolate on the air of the threshold. A quick tour of the room with butterfly fingers gives more- dust (or ash) coats the walls, which themselves are rough- hewn wooden panels that are quite solid. Slow, uneasy steps to the middle of the room, where a grimy mattress lies. A sense of loss and faliure permiates it's being, but of what it knows not. That's when panic strikes. Conflicting emotions scream across a well- worn face far above the speed limit, until eventually a pileup occurs just above the nose and it starts to cry.
it knows nothing.