She passes from one room into another and the door shuts behind her with the sudden violence of silence.
She questions this space and asks Nothingness whether or not she belongs; the new air drifting around her with a standoffish strangeness; herself suddenly feeling pangs of longing for that lost space which she had so recently left behind.
“There is nothing here but what I make of it,” she pulls at her hair and tufts here and there waft gently to the ground, “this space shall possess nothing but what I put into it and therefore nothing more shall ever knock upon my door. I bid good riddance to peevishness and all that it provides.”
She stoops and finds proof: Herself reflected in a shattered shard, a sliver of mirror reflecting back into itself, an image of a past restructured and rerouted, a future rewritten within the terms of a second chance.