He was falling. Hurtling down an endless expanse of nothingness. Slowly. Then fast. But always falling. Always, always falling. Like a star from the skies, like a raging comet across the universe. Falling down, sometimes sideways, he'd chance a look every now and again at whatever infinity of blackness went past him, only to see the ghosts of scorching, fiery contrails for as far as the eye could see. And here, the eye could see very far indeed.Downwards, ever downwards, the man stared at the gaping maw of an abyss far below him : it forebode of more flight through this desolation, probably into another dimension of despair. And suddenly, it was like he accelerated, he started to fall faster and faster. He likened this fall to the original fall; and, in a way, it made all too perfect sense to him that he was falling, likely never to ascend again. This fall justified everything that happened before, whatever that was, whenever that was. Still faster he fell, by now faster than the speed of light, the abyss that once seemed distant now aeons behind him. In the approaching distance, the man saw a light : a light at the end of the tunnel, in a way. A light at the end of all the darkness, and he fell towards it. And when he reached it, he woke up.
And he woke up in the middle of the night with the feeling that this had not been the first time he'd dreamt this dream. No, there was something too familiar there, something that spoke to him from time out of mind. A sort of cosmic, all-seeing, all-knowing presence lingered there, just at the edge of existence, in his dream. He always felt that he was trying to tell him something, and he could just remember hearing... what? a voice? No, a song, that's what it was. But he could never figure out the words to it, and like as not, would probably not even be able to comprehend them at all.
But it's still early in the night, a few hours before dawn, and there wasn't much to do. He wasn't in a reading mood, and it was too early yet for him to turn on the computer and see what was going on in the world. He needed something more... more active? More physical? Well, something that made him actually do things. And so he thought he'd make try and make a sense out of his room, a chaotic jumble of things long in dire need of a complete overhaul.
He got out of bed, went to the kitchen. From the fridge he took out milk, and on his way out, just as he turned off the light, he took some biscuits from the nearby cupboard, so he'd have something to nibble while he worked.
The first order of business would be to look through the dozens of boxes of all sizes that were in his room; he needed to sort out what was to be kept, and what was to be thrown out. It took him a few hours, but soon enough that chore was behind him. Bags full of once treasured possessions were filled, and he quickly moved on to the drawers that were full to bursting with long-forgotten items. This he dreaded the most, for there were things there that were purposely kept out of sight. He found it somewhat surprising to see that truly, most of what sat inside the drawers, amounted to be nothing but mementos of a bygone era. With a smile, he sifted through the papers, the photos, the memories... most of it he threw out, they no longer had any sort of sentimental attachment to him.
He surveyed the scene, and saw that it was good. The place was looking like something different. It was somehow lighter, much less cluttered. Something had been set free.
But still something nagged at him. Oh. Yes. He'd forgotten to go through his wardrobe. He moved towards it, opened up the doors, and felt at ease with knowledge that there was only the bare essential of clothing there. He looked down, and he saw a box. A black, unassuming box. From the first look he gave, he knew what was inside the box.
Her letters, her drawings of him, her words to him. The sound of her voice, the smell of her perfume wafting from the papers, even after so long.
He picked up the box, and sat down on his bed.
And then he opened the box.
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