She doesn't know how
long she's been there: there's no way for her to measure the passage
of time. No clocks or timing devices of any sort, the kind of
measure she thinks of as the human way. But the room is also sealed,
no windows or doors, so no movement of shadows as the sun makes its
way from day to night and back again. No plants to watch grow or
wither with the passing seasons, it's just her in a room, with only
her own heartbeat to measure the seconds.
She's just about to
give up hope of ever seeing daylight again when a crack appears in
one wall. It starts at floor level, a vertical shard of light
reaching up from the floor. It takes a few moments for it to climb
the wall to head height, where it stops. The atmosphere in the room
becomes pensive: she's frightened about what's coming next, but
there's more to the mood than that. It's as if the crack itself is
trying to decide what to do next.
After a few moments it
makes a decision, travelling horizontally across the wall for a
distance of half its' height, where it pauses once more, before
unexpectedly racing back to the floor, leaving a rectangle of light
in its wake.
Within seconds, that
light begins to fizz, turning to thick smoke.
