It is, as is often discovered, a shared dream.
Flamina turns toward the door she has just opened.
White showers everything in triplicate, as though someone has spilled flour in mid-air and left it hanging. Little particles of the stuff clump to her skin, sticking to her surfaces in a haphazard map of rough, unpolished stars.
A chair sits in the center of the room, also covered with white dust.
Near the chair is a room number sign, its old lettering faded and worn. Two dark numbers grace it, a pair of ones.
Two feet, naked and long and wide, wait beside the little sign. There is a screw nearby, probably from the sign, because there is a screw still sticking in it. And the toe of one foot is resting half-off one side of the sign’s edging. Tapping gently, a rhythm of four.
“It’s really not so bad, once you get used to it,” says the owner of the foot, who sits in the chair and does not move any more than this, the tapping.
“… hello, Daddy. Do you want to come out now?” she murmurs to the man who is the owner of the softly tapping foot.