With her left eye open the smallest of slithers, she sees the fake logs glowing before her, their glow illuminating the room, yet not bright enough to penetrate the nooks and crannies where darkness holds sway. The heat blasting from the heater continues to prick her face. Squinting, she realises she’s been crying, and the tears have dried to her face, causing the skin of her cheeks to feel crusty like the scabs on her knees brought about by her constant clumsiness. The tears weren’t those of sadness though, for the things she saw were quite the opposite, and the memory she has of them, although just formed, is enough to make her bottom lip tremble. Looking up from the logs to the window, she sees the drops of rain clinging to the glass plane, the yellow light from the lamps outside shining in each watery sphere. Everything is as it was. Perfectly still, the room is a womb for thought and fantasy, and yet, the smell inches ever closer, like the looming presence of a wide-eyed monster. At first, it had reminded her of damp wood; now, it makes her think of the shadows by the side of the road and those lurking in the corners of the room while she sleeps. The smell is the smell of the unknown, and the fear it puts inside her chest weighs her down like the anchor of a sunken ship buried many miles beneath the ocean’s surface. And yet, as much as it scares her, there’s something in the shadowy aroma that tickles her. She doesn’t want it to, but it does, and the more she tries shying away from it, the more she finds herself wishing it to come a step closer.