Aaron shivers fitfully beneath a bed of words, wondering if his own tormentor had accompanied him from slumber; becoming omnipresent in the past weeks.
Cliff edges huddle together in his mind as weary eyes close, a familiar connection to his mother; stone ladies picking over the obituaries and the latest gossip on the church steps.
A shrill siren pierces the sky and the night fractures. Shards of twilight rain to earth.
Hands worn beyond his years claw Aaron awake as an otherworldly cry travels with him to the present, imprinting upon his bones and causing him to rise from his makeshift paper cot.
On turning to search for the cause of such anguish an old oak door greets him. Aaron places one hand against its figure and notes similar knots in his own knuckles as a face he cannot see, in a familiar voice calls to him.
Time splinters, as does the old entrance, as aching calves propel him heavenward.