The Matron

I race through the maze bathed in blue light, exhilarated at the isolation of the near-empty room, then I stumbled upon a few people, standing utterly still, facing the corner. I turn and see the hut. A white mask turns and I hear a whispered, “can you see?” as a hand beckons me closer. I step in and see her. She’s gingerly holding a piece of paper. Cut in an odd shape. She holds it up to the light, and I see more. The walls are full of paper in odd shapes. And the ceiling. The whole room – rustling with parchment and shapes and ink. I watch with bated breath for a moment. It’s like a dream. I find myself somehow filled with gentle compassion for this girl, tucked away in the corner of this cerulean forest of trees, hidden inside her own trees as planks and pages, tenderly caressing a story with her fingertips. She doesn’t turn towards us. I never see her face. I leave the reverie, and continue down the path. When I turn back for one last glance, I can see them through the branches – a handful of people, standing perfectly still. White plastic faces tilt upwards towards the girl facing away from the window into her room full of words.