She doesn't fall into soft thoughts, and she doesn't live a life while her eyes are closed. But she does sleep, and tonight she has the windows to the little apartment thrown open, and heat seeps in and makes her think of sticky summer nights and the ocean breeze.
And she doesn't dream. Or she didn't dream. Or she doesn't think she does.
But tonight, tonight is step, step, step and she thinks paper castles are pretty, even if water would flood them away. But she likes pretty, and she thinks of paper cranes as she walks in. She breathes, just like the walls do, and she walks in, because of course she does. Rooms and rooms and rooms, and she steps through them in comfortable pajamas.
Step, step, step, past the girl and the faces and the grubby carpet. On and on and into the gloaming, and into the garden. But she doesn't play chess. She doesn't know how, and she doesn't dream. Around her, amid the baked earth and the chirping songs, there are pieces. Little tiny pieces, strewn throughout the garden. Things not hers, things forgotten: A toy ballerina, a book on the stars, a dollhouse staircase, a pair of shiny car keys, a child's schoolbook, a teacher's nameplate, bone-white pearls. Things and things, and more and more, and she turns in a circle and looks and looks and looks.
At the end of the garden, there's a woman. She wears white, and her head is bent, bent, bent. Her mouth is open, but she doesn't scream. She stands there, dark hair strands and unwashed-looking.
And then, it ends. The things fade away when she does. A gasp, and her skin is clammy, and her hair sticks to her cheeks. She pushes aside the blankets, and she paces and paces. In the end, she puts canvas on a stand, and she dips her fingers in oils, and she madly drags fingertips across the thick canvas.