Chapter Text
"As wave is driven by wave
And each, pursued, pursues the wave ahead,
So time flies on and follows, flies, and follows,
Always, for ever and new. What was before
Is left behind; what never was is now;
And every passing moment is renewed."
(― Ovid, Metamorphoses)
A voice echoed through the white painted corridors soothed by the soft sound of a music box.
A place filled by solitude; the cries of desperation, fear, and the agony of loss.
Her hand caressed the cold surface of the music box, the small ballerina in it spinning at the melody, she once knew, until it came to a stop.
She heard the keys; she heard the whispers; she heard the mutters...
When the door opened ...
Her pain began.