And the day the Dream of The Fourth Floor arrived, and she was named.
This began as a dream—an unforgettable dream.
I found myself walking across a dimly lit parking garage toward a staircase. At first, I couldn’t tell where I was. My legs felt tired, like I had been trudging through quicksand for hours. I didn’t want to touch the filthy handrail, but I had to because the stairs were so steep. The steel edges of the steps scraped across the bottoms of my boots as I climbed.
To my right was an escalator—silent, unmoving, covered with the thoughtless detritus that gathers over years of being out of order.
Ground floor to first floor.
First to second. My head began to hurt.
Second to third. The pain sharpened, flaring across my scalp like tiny lightning bolts with every step.
When I finally reached the fourth floor, I caught my reflection in the window—an unmistakable recognition of self.
Except for the feather sticking straight up out of my head.
And the fourth floor?
That’s where the past, present, and future waited for me…
