Above you the light looks green. Below you is bottomless black depth.

The sound of water splashing over stones erases all other sounds. You have been hovering on the edge of wakefulness for long enough to realize that the sound is getting louder.

It is now deeply dark. It could have been hours or minutes ago that you climbed to the top of the stairs and pushed the door open to this room.

Seven steps, a landing, eight more steps. As you ascend the steps, you pause on the landing. The stairs are oak, well worn, and clean.

“Come in! Come in! There is a fire in the grate,” the bustle of the elderly couple brings a grin to your face. It’s not cold, but the fire is welcoming.

The setting sun warms your back as you stand in the doorway. The light, divided by your shadow, spills across the threshold.

There is a vast plain below you. There, on the meadow, threaded with waving grasses and Queen Anne’s Lace, is a castle. While it looks sturdy enough, it is not a fortress.