just as he is pulling the door closed, something calls out behind him. it is not overheard. something had intended for him to hear this noise, regardless of its foreign texture, regardless of being understood. he thinks, recalls, finds nothing, except, perhaps, a bird, or a ghost. the call was singular, and not unlike the sound of knocking. but it was not mechanic, not monotonous; he has heard, definitely, the inflections that suggest voice, yet strangely more hollow, like a bird, a ghost.
that night he has a dream of walking endlessly, through walls and walls, of spider webs. an indistinct location; a park at night, perhaps. a droning pace, his own feet, distant. unlike most dreams, he knows where he is going, even has a clue of how he'd gotten here. he is on his way home, on sunday. but this information, he knows, is secondary. it is simply there, as an option. he takes another step and a shadow flattens, as, and where, his foot lands. then he feels it, on his arm. it is too late, he has already moved past, and now the time trails behind him. each step involves him further in the silky, melting wires. the webs feel like a mixture of cloth, dust, and glue. he tries to wipe the strands from his forearms, but as he touches them, they mold to his skin. each new line becoming indistinguishable, accumulating, certain of its own precarious momentum.