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| Jeffrey Pine |
The door opens on tules bordering a lake, and you remember dragonflies and red-winged blackbirds, which suddenly appear--the memory, you surmise, surfacing because of the faintest rustling of transparent wings and a burbling call far off in the distance. You hear an echo from a large rock outcropping, but instead of someone emerging from the grove, a woodpecker glides to a nearby tree and forages in the bark, knocking again without any rhythm you can follow. The woodpecker flies away, and suddenly the knocking sound resembles footsteps, and you are suddenly waiting again for people who brought you here to appear at the edge of the woods. Off in the distance, the sound, more and more indistinct, continues. Sitting quietly in the breeze as dragonfly wings rustle in the tules, you gaze beyond the deep blue water to the mountains covered in snow.
Room 104 has ten other doors. Choose one.
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