It's raining.
It's always raining.
It should stop raining, sometimes, but it's always raining.
You stand at the window as the rain falls, and everything is grey, grey grey.
A lifeless city of a thousand unlit windows and a thousand unwalked streets and ten thousand drops of rain drumming on the rooftops and surging through the gutters.
You don't know how long you've been staring out this window...
Behind you, a grey light flickers slightly, for an instant your eyes dilate, then go out of focus, and the trance of watching the rain fall endlessly down down down out of the black sky (Where to? Where from?) breaks for just a moment...
You see a glimpse of reflection in the light against the glass, a face, familiar and yet nondescript, grey and grey and grey, and yet...
[] It is a Woman's Face
[] It is a Man's Face
You blink, motion, a catch of the eye, even the backs of your eyelids are grey, but they serve as reprieve nonetheless.
Something stirs inside you...
You feel a spark of...
Choose One
[] Rage
[] Joy
[] Grief
For an instant, you feel warm...
Then the spark is gone and so too is the sensation, and yet, it persists beyond, in its reflection.
You were warm, and you are no longer warm, so you are cold.
This grey is cold and cold and cold.
You need to get out, out of this grey before it chills you and you forget what it is like to be warm again.
The Grey Door is there, but beside it rests a small grey table, and upon it sits an object that gleams in defiance of its grey, that seems to squirm with something repressed.
You reach out, and pick it up...
Choose One
[] A smooth pebble, perfectly shaped to fit into your palm, yet it seems to slip slightly no matter how you hold it. It evokes Innocence.
[] A crude flintlock, old and familiar in your grip, yet it feels wrong for you to be the one that wields it. It evokes Loss.
[] A broken-tipped knife, speckled with dots of dried blood and rust, yet its presence is a comfort. It evokes Protectiveness.
[] A weathered and blunted sword, a weight upon your arms, yet it reminds you to be confident. It evokes Passion.
[] A heavy crescent wrench, so large it takes two hands to lift, it does not feel as though it should be a weapon, yet it tells you that it is. It evokes Desperation.
"Time to go..." You whisper.
It hurts...