Trapped (5)

Aston Rosenmahl. His name echoes in my mind, interwoven with the color blue. The blue of his crystal, the one that beckons me. Before I know it, I find myself seated on his blue chair, my hand resting upon the rough, glowing blue crystal. A soft breeze brushes against my face, and my eyes shimmer, as if the very air has become infused with something ancient. The blue light flickers, blinding me, until, in the next moment, it fades—replaced by a faint hue of orange.

I find myself staring at the ceiling above, surrounded by orange curtains hanging down from either side. The blue light now falls across my skin, its warmth unfamiliar, yet pleasant. My eyelids flutter, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel something other than the pulse of blood within me. The warmth of the sun. My lips curve upward in a smile, and for a fleeting moment, I feel free.