[Somehow, in the back of the cottage, there's a door. But it's not a wooden door, the kind that should be in the cottage. It is metal, smooth and clean in the midst of the decay. There is a number on it: 67. No, that can't be here.
Outside, it's soundless, as if there's nothing outside, no attackers, no battle, no world whatsoever. From beyond the incongruous door, there's a low humming noise, as of machinery running.]
It's not possible. [He should go back, he knows. He wants to, but he stretches out a hand, pressing it against the cool surface of the door. It feels real enough.]
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Outside, it's soundless, as if there's nothing outside, no attackers, no battle, no world whatsoever. From beyond the incongruous door, there's a low humming noise, as of machinery running.]
It's not possible. [He should go back, he knows. He wants to, but he stretches out a hand, pressing it against the cool surface of the door. It feels real enough.]