The sound of droplets echoing in the darkness gain in magnitude. The source cannot be seen through the smoky shadows, but it’s there, the constant drip, drop. He puts his hand up to his face, but in this place, void of any light, he cannot see, not even when he moves it from side to side, inches away.
This has to be the fourth, or fifth, time he has ended up in here, his dreams trying to show him something. An endless wasteland of darkness, except for those drops somewhere. He continues on, one foot in front of the other, listening to the echoes, and tries to locate the origin of the droplets.
He stops, again, and moves his hands out before him, grabbing the darkness as if it is a tangible thing, and tries to pry it apart. Little balls of it break away, floating away as they are tossed behind him. He picks up the pace, digging now, through the wall of shadow.
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