The room almost seemed to brighten and grow ever darker at the same time, like a sunset that seemed to burn the forest on the horizon as the flame of light sunk down, down, down, lower and lower until it seemed to light nothing but the cages of hellhounds; the fire still burned in embers as Ernsta began to feel the corners of the books fall into place, not blackened by the menacing glow of the crimson sunset but simply crumbling in the face of forgetfulness and leaving ashes of an unseen fire – seeming to be left by a war that never happened – falling towards the ground where they were, in piles of dust upon the ground. Yet the pages were simply separated, revealing yellow paper that encircled her in the void of bewilderment, ink spilling away to the wind among the turmoil of the night following the sunset; a time when the clocks seem to move so slowly and yet so quickly at the same time. It shrank away, lingering for a moment, leaving each page to fall back like a crow's ink-stained feather cascading in the wind sorrowfully, like a dream, a hope, a downcast gaze as the grave passes by, so quickly forgotten, so small, so seemingly light, yet drenched in tears and weighing down each word, each page. As if seeing the dead, hollow eyes of the corpse falling, the pages seemingly so light as they fell back into place but soaked in ink, the viper recoiled beneath the chair on which she sat and she almost felt the fear it fled in. The books, now reconstructing themselves seemed to almost line up for some unseen battle, an army organising its troops upon the shelves. Watching from the dust as Ernsta rose from the chair and gazed around at the decaying wood and yellowed pages, crumbling from age; they watched through the cobwebs, silently menacing, yet lining up for nothing. No war was about to be fought, no battle won or lost. So, they stared, despite having no eyes, as she wandered slowly out through the doorway, feeling eerily numb and making her way to the kitchen, which greeted her with silence; and they watched her in silence, simply stopping to contemplate, to think. Perhaps they just didn't want to shatter the serenity of the moment, the woeful beauty of the words unsaid, and actions not taken, yet still regretted.

Though she felt ravenous, and each word seemed to echo, each silence a mercy, a smile amongst decay and turmoil, and cruel murmurs of hopelessness. Despite the cupboards being full of so much food, Ernsta simply turned away, and as she did, she started to notice the viper; in its recoiled state, each corridor a few steps, was tense. When the air was still it could sometimes be eerie, or perhaps so full of joy it seems to hold still; or even stopped in anticipation – when everything seems so easy, you want to enjoy it, to remember one moment, of not knowing. Of innocence before that first bell tolls, and it crumbles away. This wasn't a stillness of joy, or of contentment. It felt cold, dreary, each breath short as if there wasn't enough air. Perhaps it was simply tense in fear; everything stared ahead, each book, each rotting plank of wood, each cobweb, each page lined up in battle. At something. Something that held dread in its breath and its shadow – and yet Ernsta couldn't see it, just the cobwebs and drought. The air seemed to fear something that lay ahead, lining up in armies to fight its quarry – yet each step was numb, no wind seeming to sigh as it usually did, just numb, and in the false hope of rising blindly from a restless sleep, her sight seemed blurred, and though it seemed like every other book and leaf could see what lay behind her as she glanced back, it was simply a sinister wind. That feeling of numbness lingered as she walked upon the viper's trembling back towards the door, a hope. It was a blindness of dreams fading in and out of memory, comforting thoughts of nothingness and chaos at the same time drowning out the looming threat that lay there, in the shadows, gone to the far, far corner as soon as Ernsta looked for what made the winds blow colder, the air seem sinister and the cruel, bleak reality seem even more towering. And perhaps it was the wind howling a cry of agony as it sighed, a funeral bell ringing, as the door creaked open. It was as if, among a crowd of silent mourners, they were uttering a sorrowful goodbye. As if they would miss her when she stepped through the doorway and wandered across the path, dread building in her steps as she approached it. The blinding, abyssal fog – it was nothing, almost a blank page, obscuring the ink beneath; yet the stains that were visible were like a forlorn trail of blood leading to a battle with death. They could be letters between two friends, yet there was something brooding and dreary about them. Something ineffably terrifying, something she couldn't see.

Perhaps it was the darkness outside that made her tremble in dread for the path that stretched out like a trail of smoke in the sky, or perhaps it was the shadow that seemed to follow her; it was the constant murmur in the back of your mind that was the cruellest torment, yet it was comforting to not be alone after the figure had vanished for so long, and the silence had grown agonising as each word she said went unheard, each footstep unseen, each smile feigned. There was a comfort in leaving that house, the hollow companionship of rotting spirits and phantoms; the overgrown plants and cobwebs in each corner that haunted you as you went room to room. It was tranquil as each mocking glare was further and further away, and the veil of night fell, first in loose threads then stitching together into a blanket of warmth, like a widow's veil – Ernsta almost couldn't see the looming shadow as she began to walk, the piercing serenity shattered by each footstep in the darkness. The glass littered the ground behind that veil, and perhaps it was the veil of tranquillity that was being shattered, torn thread by thread, that left her with no scars. Night always had a calm whisper of terror, a looming shadow, yet it was still harmonious, not dissonant, to feel the cold breath on your face, sending a shudder over your skin, yet seeming so kind. So warm despite the cold, cold air. Standing beside a scarred and dented tree trunk, age withering and carving it even as she halted, she began to hear footfalls. Those weren't... Hers. A moment. Perhaps not appreciated enough as it ended so soon. A moment of innocence. Of blindness when you could see. She was not alone. They were not alone. It was not her only companion as she wandered.

The trees called ominous greetings to Ernsta as she gazed at them, wandering past and watching how each wave of greeting faded as the wind fell cruelly, giving way to a silence and a serenity that let the sky weep sorrowfully; muted cries echoed as the wind sighed once more, leaving each branch to whisper and seem so kind, so friendly, before cascading and vanishing, turning to a much more solemn goodbye spoken in a woebegone voice beside a grave; at each sigh the silence then returned, tranquillity haunting it, lurking in the shadows where the nightmares lay silently. Only breaths of them could be heard in the silence as she listened, begging it to stop. In the gloomy, foreboding mist, each wave of each branch shifted the veils of grief and hollow serenity, making the fog tremble for a few moments before it settled again on the deep amber leaves, falling tentatively on the sighs of grieving lovers; each ominous quiver of the branches made Ernsta tremble with the urge to glance behind, to see what it was that made the air itself feel oppressive. Yet despite the wind, it stayed still and silent. Just an unheard, forgotten whisper, unsure whether it was ever spoken. Another breath echoed through the air with a cruel hesitance. Waiting. Waiting as the veils shifted, hiding places for wandering apparitions – she whispered to herself in serene, eerie terror as each veil parted, leading to another white sheet. Like veils over corpses – you can wander through what could have seemed like empty canvases when the paint was in your hands, or scrolls not yet embroidered, yet she always came to another blank sheet, another curtain, a silk cloth over a corpse. She let only her footsteps stir the silk as it flowed, each small droplet among the fog colder with the dread of each breath that she knew wasn't hers as Ernsta stood, watching, blinded. As the next veil of fog parted as the silhouette sighed, a book in hand, they emerged, a mere shadow sheltering, almost cowering, in the shelter of the trees. The shadow seemed not even to move, or to notice her gaze fall on their pale complexion; as if it were through a veil. Yet it shuddered with fear as footsteps approached it, a face appearing as each veil of white silk was peeled away, more forebiddingly each time as she saw the figure wander, almost lost.

"Hello?" Ernsta called out, cautious as each step grew slower, like a pulse dying away; a pulse of a cruel dread, yet of curiosity. It slowed but continued as she stepped onward, further, further. A flame merely flickering. Meek footsteps neared, closer, closer, as the woman emerged from the fog, at first obscured by the dove's feathers among the silk veils of brides that never were; she came into view, and her hair was matted in knots that were almost branches that formed a nest, tightly woven, as if they were vines that were overgrown with time – looking down, Ernsta gazed at the stranger's eyes. They were hollow, dull. As if the inside screamed for there to be something, anything; yet there was nothing. As she looked closer, it was almost a veil of remorse obscuring a bright hope, glimmering and cruel, yet something – behind that veil, behind a gravestone and a gaunt, deathly pale face, there was joy. Perhaps joy to see someone among the splinters of lost souls and echoing screams of lost, weary children – but this wasn't a glow of hope, not even a glow of drowning sorrows, of hollow, rotting cores. It was a strange, glowing joy – the glare of a murderer at a corpse, yet at the same time the gaze of a mother as her child sleeps so peacefully. The woman held a book as she wandered, gazing into the distance, inscripted with golden vines that glimmered in the oppressive moonlight with a cold white glow; the deep crimson intertwined with it seemed duller, entangled with the golden leaves and stems. The paintwork almost seemed like a trail of stains, petals expanding outward, further and further outward; flowers of guilt. They grew more and more until there seemed to be petals upon the book's cover, vivid and scarlet. Taking a step forward, she approached the woman "Hello, are you lost?" she asked.

"No, we're all lost." There seemed such little hope in her voice, perhaps it even sounded cold, hollow. Ernsta glanced around,

"I'm Ernsta, what's... What's your name?" As she asked, a cold wind blew, and she began to shiver.

"Ophelia," The woman spoke quietly, before her eyes grew glazed, not as if she were dead, but simply gazing into the distance woefully. Then she began to laugh, in a strange accent; It was a flame that grew to be a house fire as she laughed hysterically, and her eyes glowed – Ernsta fled, leaving her cackling, before the echoes grew silent.

The gleaming teeth in the jaws of the fog consumed each memory of the ominous shadow, and she gazed at where the apparition once lay, before glancing away to think as the vile tongue of mist found its way to her, blinding her gaze even to the looming fangs among the veils. Something in those eyes recognised her, a flame in a world full of darkness. A single freed prisoner in a cave of so many who didn't know anything but the walls of the cave – whispers of conversations echoed endlessly, ringing out as if she had laughed joyously, as if she had seen her as a friend; yet she never had and never would. Blinded by the fog, she stared down, searching for the pathway through the forest, worn and well-trodden by many lost souls. Each step seemed like a moment passing, a branch calling Ernsta's attention as the cruel, mocking laughter echoed, before growing silent, almost woebegone, mournful, and lying still as the fog settled. Shadows began to encroach upon the dim moonlight, a wind sighing, before the grey clouds loomed overhead, and dread seeped into each step, each moment, each second. There was more time before Ernsta could bring herself to take one step at every moment. There was an odd tranquillity to the silence before the rain started to fall, and she saw the library beckon her, closer, closer, with a lantern. A warmth. A flicker of recognition. And the graveyard beside her seemed to mock the hope it brought.