The statement was just as ominous as the hanging silence, and it didn't seem like a good idea to ask more. Sometimes just the asking made a thing happen. A dreamtime form of self-fulfilling prophecy. The dreamer's mind would latch onto the thought and create it in vivid technicolor in the dream. Sometimes it was a good thing that was created. But only sometimes. And those were not times that began with being locked inside a closet because it was 'safe'.
So many things in the room beyond the sliding closet door were blue, which made the other colors stand out in strange saturation. It felt, to Tristan, a little like Van Gogh's bedroom in Arles, even in the way his own mind skewed the perspective of the vision. It flattened again as his eyes registered the glitter of broken glass and the grey softness of the rat. The smell of chemicals stung Tristan's nose. He didn't know if the room beyond the closet was a reflection of a real place, or simply a mind's nighttime construct, but he hoped for the latter. It just didn't feel like any space that should be real. Not in its sterility.
Once the door was open, Tristan could better see his closet companion, and wondered if all of the dreamers he encountered now would be the type that he felt compelled to capture on paper or canvas. He wondered if all of them would be young men with easily-seen bones and a sadness in their eyes. He didn't step forward, didn't follow, watching from the threshold of the closet, bare feet still safe on the cold floor there. He gestured down at them in reply to the asked question and lifted an eyebrow. Whitepale toes against the floor was answer enough.