It is a nice place.

It is a nice place. 

Golden drops of sunlight trickle through the windows, wettened with the pitter-patter of rainfall brief moments ago. Your finger traced a line, blurring the fog. Two more lines. A face, smile, stares back at you and you squint, the sun in your eyes. It is beautiful, outside. Tall buildings, rising high above the skyline tower over you, the dimly-lit second-floor apartment you're in. It is a nice place. You do not know  the history, you are unaware of everything that had happened beneath your feet a mere hundred years ago. You live your life in perfect ignorant bliss, take a step back, smile and turn to move to the bedroom, a small hum leaving you the moment the floor creaks underneath a clothed foot. The sock snags, catching on a nail. A small groan, it takes you a while to loosen your foot and keep moving. Once you do, you do not look up and hit a wall but you keep walking and your foot clad in heels clacks onto the floor and you find yourself in the same room you just stood in.

Everything is the same but yet so different at the same time. You look up. It is black and white. Outstretched, gloved hand. Gentle, frail, delicate. You take your glove off. It is white and goes up to your elbows. Your fingers are straight, long, a pianist’s hands. You smile, a delicate upwards curve with rosy lips before they droop as you move to the same window you traced not so long ago. It looks very different. There are no more tall buildings, there is no sun. You look outside, rain clouds your vision and you watch raindrops race down the window-pane. You bet that the fat one will win.

It does.

The sky is clear but the rain is falling and falling and it does not seem to stop. You look around. The chair is gone, oh. The furniture has disappeared too, in its place are cobwebs and dust that makes you sneeze, a wrinkle of a delicate thin nose,  and cracked floor and walls that allow spiders and bugs free access to the house. There is no story, but this is strangely enough still a nice place. You twirl around once, your dress fanning out around you stirring up dust. The light, finally there is some, filters through the window and you hurry over to catch it in your palm, your soft palm. It sifts through the cracks in your fingers and you watch in dismay as a shadow falls over them.

One blink later you are back, lights and colors bright, facing the sun. A yelp escapes you and you jump back, frightened. There is a story here. You are a girl. You look down. The gloves are gone, instead, a jewelled ring rests comfortably on your ring finger. You look up.

A man, black and white, peers at you with a friendly smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling and curving up as he extends a hand out to you. His eyes sparkle with silent mirth, you accept his offer and your world turns black, the only source of light the white wedding dress you are wearing and the cream of his tuxedo, the tie a black mess of sparkling stars neatly thrown together.

It is a nice place.

He pulls you close and you lock eyes, smile as your fingers intertwine, gloved fabrics brushing against each other. You draw close, he gently dips you down. You come back up, and you sway to silent music. A fluttering shut of eyelids and when the lids lift he is gone. Your partner is gone, only thing that lingers is a brief chuckle, honeyed, and the faint smell of roses puffing in the air.

The roses that are interlaced in your blonde hair, the petals a delicate comparison to the light blush on your cheeks.

You look down. You are still wearing a colourful dress of pastels blue and yellow and pink and your socks are white . The ring still hugs your finger, you smile, a brief fleeting moment that brings sparkles into your eyes. You spin slowly with your eyes closed, arms outstretched and gloves touch yours as he pulls you close, the smell of faint flowers assaulting your senses. You know it’s him, the dance he pulls you into is one you recognise.

It is a nice place, in his arms.

With him, anywhere is. Outside it is rainy, stormy, thunder lashes against the window but none of you stir. You hear a fire, in the hearth, feel the heat against your face. Your cheek is against his chest, you listen to his heart beat as you step rhythmically to an unheard tune. He begins crooning, in your ear, a song you recognise but cannot place the name for. His arms are strong, his chest is flat, solid. His grip is firm but gentle as it holds your hands, one touching your back gently, rubbing circles along your spine. You tilt your chin up, smile with your eyes shut. The hand moves away from your back, touches your chin, brief pressure against your nose before it pulls away and a palm rests on your shoulder, thumb coming to brush the nape of your neck. The contact between the two of you is not sexual, is more gentle, caring, loving. He softly pushes your shoulder so you fall away and the atmosphere changes. Your eyes open, amber optics sparkling in dismay and your fingers reach out to touch nothing.

You do not know nor have memory of the place you just were in. They were just brief moments in space, time, taken from the strings that were her life. Short flashes where the moments are snipped then put together, in an alternate reality then brought to the same place and pasted only many many years prior.

A sigh, it is a nice place.

Outside, the rain pitter-patters down the window again.