Eleven
Knill sits up, confused. Waking up from a decade long dream tends to make one do that. Knill looks at the glittering, purple stone he still has in his hand. It seems to glow against the unending white of the room and the monotonous grey of Knill’s skin. The white room is a prison of sorts, a place where one is tortured. The walls are too white. Indeed, they are so white that one cannot decide where the wall ends and the floor begins. It is almost as if one could go on walking forward forever. But obviously, Knill cannot; he can feel the solid wall in front of him. It is undoubtedly a wall.
He sees a small speck purposefully striding towards him from beyond the wall. The figure comes closer and closer until it is a few feet from Knill. He drops a piece of paper in front of him and begins to walk away. Knill watches him incredulously for a few minutes before deciding that he must follow this man. He starts off at a sprint, only to crash against the wall in front of him. Cursing and rubbing his head, Knill picks up the piece of paper and reads it. For some reason, he has been given his ticket out of there.
