Chapter Text
Empty Flowerbed
There’s nobody here, despite the strange shine of artificial light. The light is shining on a patch of green grass. It smells faintly of daisies, like cheap perfume.
You feel a powerful sense of deja vu.
Something should be here.
But it’s not.
Perhaps it’s better that way.
The Ruins
The dust is so thick, it’s impossible to breathe. You see puzzles, but they’ve all been deactivated. Someone else has been through here. You walk for endless miles through the labyrinth, but it’s all the same: faded purple walls and piles of powder. Your lungs burn and your eyes grow dry from it. As you reach the ends of hallways, a ringing in your ears grows louder and louder, like screams. You don’t want to think about who came before. You don’t want to think about what you’re breathing in. When you reach the end of the maze, you see a house.
You have no choice but to proceed.
The Mysterious House
The smell of dust is what hits you first, heavy and acrid in your nose. You can feel the quiet grief as you push open the heavy door. It’s as if this house was designed for someone much larger than yourself. The house smells sweet, but stale. It’s oppressive, like old cinnamon. You’ve never liked cinnamon. It’s dark inside, lit only by a strange glow, but you can’t discern the source. You wander through the house and feel a burning sense of nostalgia. The bookcase, the armchair, the fireplace… Someone sat there, someone read there, someone lived here. But they’re gone now and all that’s left is an ache in your heart. You wish you could have met them. You wish you could meet anyone. But they’re all gone. Someone killed them. An overwhelming despair fills you as you rush into one of the rooms, trying to escape your own sadness. Instead, you find a room that must have belonged to a child. Chests of drawers, a toy box, and a small bed adorn the sides of the room, along with…
A music box.
Music Box
You hear the sound of a music box playing. You don’t know where it’s coming from. The tune is simple and homey and should make you smile. Your chest tightens as you remember freshly cut grass, lemonade, warm smiles, and crunchy piles of leaves. The music taunts you with its repetitive melody, reminding you that this was someone’s home.
You’ll never see yours again.
The End of the Ruins
When you go down the stairs, you aren’t surprised to find more purple walls and endless corridors. You traverse them, a growing sense of dread filling your bones. You feel an urge to turn back, but you resist it. The house was its own sort of unbearable, and if you stopped moving, you’d never start again. You want to go home, not to the one upstairs, but your true home. You want to feel safe. You want to escape this misery. You want to sleep in your own bed.
When you reach the end of the hallway, the dread comes rushing back. There’s a large pile of dust in the center of the room, stained with a copious amount of blood. The smell makes your stomach turn and before you know it, you collapse to your knees and vomit uncontrollably. Your arms shake, your eyes blur with tears, you retch and gag on all the food left in your stomach until you’re throwing up bile. When there’s nothing left, you stand up on shaky legs. The sight of the blood and dust nearly sends you back to your knees, but you resist the urge and walk around. Your legs tremble as you try not to look at the carnage. Who did this? God, who would do this? You finally make it to the door and scramble through, letting out a sigh of relief.
Another Flowerbed?
When you enter the next room, you see another patch of green, fake looking grass. The smell of daisies is stronger, more artificial. There are no flowers. For that, at least, you’re grateful.
Leaving the Ruins
You have a bad feeling about leaving, but you have no other options. As soon as you open the door, a frozen tundra. A violent blizzard awaits your ungloved fingers and uncovered face. You begin to reconsider, but looking back into the dusty tomb of the Ruined City fills you with a strange sense of determination. Rashly, you take a step forward into the snow, your shoes sinking ankle deep. As soon as your hand leaves the door, the howling winds slam it shut. The sound of the doors thundering closed sends an unbearable chill of dread down your spine. The faint smell of cinnamon is long gone.
Go back?
…
No matter how desperately you throw your body against the door and scream, it will not budge.