Jake walked.
Not towards anything — just away from the place he’d woken up.
The sky above him pulsed gently, now a soft amber.
The ground shifted underfoot, not in movement, but in texture.
Sometimes moss.
Sometimes glass.
Once, briefly, feathers.
He didn’t know how long he’d walked when he saw the figure again.
It stood still this time.
Human-shaped, but taller, thinner, draped in something like woven light, No face, No voice, Just presence.
Jake stopped.
The figure raised one arm slowly and pointed.
Not with a finger — it had none — but with the entire arm, angled towards a distant hill.
Jake hesitated.
Then nodded.
The figure turned and began to glide.
He followed.
The hill was not a hill.
It was a fold in the land, like a blanket pulled up over something sleeping.
As they approached, Jake saw a structure — not built but grown.
Branches twisted into walls.
Leaves layered into a roof.
A door made of silence.
The figure gestured again.
Jake stepped inside.
It was warm.
Not with heat, but with memory.
The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and old paper.
A single cushion sat in the centre of the room.
No bed.
No table.
No light source — yet everything was visible.
Jake sat.
The figure remained outside, watching.
Jake whispered, “Thank you.”
The figure bowed — or maybe just folded — and vanished.
Jake was alone again.
But time he was not lost.
He lay down on the cushion and stared at the ceiling of leaves.
They shifted gently, showing glimpses of sky, then stars, then something like dreams.
He didn’t sleep, he rested.
And for the first time since arriving, he felt… a sense of warmth.