“Red door,” Robert whispers to himself, “Red door.”
His hand moves to scratch his chin, which has suddenly become very
itchy. But rather than touch his chin, his hand encounters a huge
growth of hair. Robert brings both hands to his face in alarm,
realising that he's grown a beard. It's thick and bushy, and hangs
almost halfway down his chest. He looks down to get a better look at
it, only to discover the state of his clothing, which has become
tattered and threadbare with age. The beard he sees is flecked with
grey, his hands gnarled with age. His walk, he is suddenly aware,
has become more of a hobble.
“How long have I been in this damnable corridor?” he cries.
