The dripping sound from the leak in the neighboring cell’s faucet had begun to drive Grune insane. Though the whirring from the detention grid still dominated, that dripping, like a insistent needle, burrowed into Grune’s brain until sleep became impossible. He leaned back on his cot and folded his arms upon himself. It was getting colder outside, he thought. And yet his status was stasis. How much longer in this place. He knew the answer but pushed it back until his future fed his past.
Weight. Weight. At times it seemed like concrete lain across his shoulders. Doulos always carried such unseen loads, but the pressing upon Doulos Dominic was truly extraordinary.
Dark shadows. Cold stone. Nothing from the outside could penetrate the inside of the cell except light. One small square in the immense wall of blackness breathed a refined brilliance into Nicolas’ time-immune world. But it was the silence which called him. Light, dark. These were only variations on a cyclical theme. But silence—that was where the rest lied.