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Darkness slowly recedes, and a hallway materializes before him, though dimly lit itself. Where he was prior – who he was prior – is a vague memory of an uncertainty. An entity, surely, one comprised of conflictions and regrets and joys and, one who was suddenly very hollow. He raises a hand and examined it for a moment, turning the appendage and glancing at the palm. The skin was paper smooth, resilient to lines or wrinkles of any sort even as he began to curl the fingers in upon themselves. A laugh escaped him as he realized the implications therein. No lifeline. No loveline. He was an empty vessel waiting to be filled. Even the laugh was an empty thing, crisp and fundamental. Without malice, without joy. An expulsion of air.

Glancing down the hall he sees no end, only a series of doors with small lights above each, illuminating the handle as the rest of the hall remains in darkness. He turns to the first doorway and places the unmarked palm on the knob. The room beyond is small and colourful, a flurry of reds and greens and orange. For a moment his eyes – steel grey, though he doesn't know it – flitter across the walls, trying to find purchase. They settle upon the corner to his left, and the young girl laying on her stomach, enraptured with something before her. As he steps closer her sees the details of the wall and floor are done in crayon. Hundreds of drawings hastily scribbled on pages. He looked down to his palm again, wondering idly if crayon would stick.

“I don't want you here.” Her voice contrasted his, a chipper hum which rang off the corners of the room.

“I don't want to be here. What are you drawing?” He reached down to pick up a few loose sheets, his attention divided and largely muted. He was no more certain of his surroundings than he'd been in that hall.

She did not turn to look at him, her head staying crouched over the page as her arm flung out to grab a new colour from the floor beside her. Broken and worn crayons were littered about her, yet even the smallest of nubs seemed unwilling to be reduced past usefulness. “Dreams.”

A pain shot through his body, like his innards had been forcefully removed through his skin. He righted himself after a moment. “You should stop.”

“Why?”

His eyes flitter across the sheets on the ground as they begin to come to focus. A car. A house. A orange cat and a parakeet. A smiling wife. Another blast ricochets through him, bringing him to his knees. “Because it hurts.”

She smiles into the paper before her, adding a hint of pink to the cheeks of a young child in a blue jumper swinging between his parents, grasping one hand from each for stability. Finally she turns to him, holding up the page. “Dreams don't hurt, silly.” Brandishing the image at him, she grasps it with both hands, pressing it into his face.

This time when he exhales it is a sharp, quick breath. Looking around him, he begins to gather the pages, compiling a small collection of those which send the sharpest spear into his gut. “Yes.” He takes the page from her and places it on top of the pile, grasping the stack with both hands. “They do.” His hands move in opposite directions, each one taking half the pile with it. “They do.” The girl screams, and her voice echoes through him. Dropping the torn pages, he brings his unmarked palms up and covers his ears, wincing against the shrill sound until it fades to nothing.

Slowly, he opens his eyes again. He is back in the hallway. The door to his left – the door with the girl – no longer has a knob, and the light above it has gone out. Turning his attention down the hall, he watches as every third or forth light starts to flicker, then fades to darkness. His lips curl upward as he steps forward, pressing ever onward down an ever darkening, ever narrowing corridor.