“Reddor, reddor,” Robert mumbles as he crawls along the corridor.
“Reddor, reddor.”
He's not sure what it means, only that is used to mean something,
something important. But he knows that doesn't matter now, he can't
go on, there is no more life in than can sit and rest and die.
He closes his eyes, folds his hands in his lap, and waits for an end
to come.
“Good lord,” says a voice, “You've got yourself in a pickle.”
“Whu...?” Robert is surprised when he opens his eyes to find he
is sat in front of a red door.
“It seems even a wake walker loses themselves in the corridors of
the subconscious,” says the voice. “Never mind, it'll all come
back to you when you walk through that door. Be warned though,
you're going to find it a little bit odd in there. Just find
yourself a place to sit and wait for me, and try not to engage with
the environment.”
