“Soft whispers in the night arouse your sweet, sweet soul, my love. Come to me. Come away.” The voice echoed through the blackened chambers of Twillow’s mind, beating against her heart like pounding surf. She’d been here before, many times. So many she could not count them, and still the voice taunted her with its mournful, disembodied voice.
Turning, she glimpsed the soft, velvet glow of white light. Her feet, unshod, pressed against the cold floor (if it were a floor indeed, for all she knew it could be the ceiling or the wall). Moving forward, ever so slowly, ever so steadily, she neared the light. It was always this way; always had been, always would be.
“Gently, my soul’s desire. Quietly.” The voice careened against unseen walls, vibrating within her dampened ribcage. Twillow felt her throat constrict, partially in fear, partially in excitement.
The light, now vibrant, shining as though it were a giant goose-egg, floated somberly in the middle of the room. Still, nothing around it was visible. It pulsated and shook with whatever strange passion resided within.
“Gently, closer.” The voice called to her amidst the swirling light. Milky tendrils danced in and out of the egg-like globe, threading their way back and forth several inches above their source.
Twillow couldn’t see herself, but she knew her hand was outstretched before her, reaching for the light, yearning for its touch.
The globe sparked, hissing loudly as one tendril broke away from the rest and jaggedly tore towards Twillow. She covered her face, but the sight remained the same, for she saw not with mortal vision but with the eyes of her soul.
Signed with acorns and hazelnuts,