Monday, June 26, 2017
The shapes keep swimming, shifting, blurring as soon as she looks at them. Sliding away from her gaze, like those amorphous things that float inside your eyes.
That first one is a four. Maybe. No, definitely.
But wait, it's a reflection, so it should be the other way around? Or is it? Does that mean four is the last number?
Night after night, never the same dream, always the same message - three numbers. Four and... nine? And... what?
Now they've become melting wax, now oil paint floating on a wind-driven pond, now wafting into the air like tissue paper. Or ash.
There must be a reason. She needs there to be a reason. She must be meant to remember them, that's the only explanation. The harder she tries to grasp at the memory, the quicker it slips free.
And the dream fades...