a pitter patter of cautious feet in the wee hours, she walks.
down the hall a flower blossoms.
the stem causes the ground to creak and the lights fade an iridescent blue as it grows, subduing themselves to carnage.
she takes her time, fingers brushing against old paintings and eyes fluttering closed past mirrors.
down the hall a deep indigo stains the air, a cold colour providing warmth. dew collides gently with wood, restoring life to something irreversibly dead.
fingers touch her skin, cold yet gratifying, leaving but goosebumps in their wake. they twirl her hair and tickle her feet. they push her further, faster through the corridor.
down the hall the flower is still, resting. no dripping of dew or clockwork heartbeat. it lies in anticipation of what is to come, a beacon of opportunities, if only it would round the corner.
almost in slow motion she turns, swaying head-first into the mist of blue now her only horizon.
the flower invites her forward, into its warming embrace.
her spine rests against the largest, softest petal and there she will stay until the rise of morning.
