One day Lilly woke to find her closet especially dark, more dark than the night, but the dark wasn’t sad or wrong; the dark called to her and she heard the song of it. Lilly entered the darkness. The dark stretched on and on. She followed the song through earth and water and rock and wind.
A light appeared ahead. No, more like a place where there was no darkness. Not really a light. More like an absence of light or darkness. Lilly stepped forward and touched the place of no light or darkness, the place where the song came from, and the song filled her, gently and with her permission.
The song was very old, from before her room, before Lilly, before the light or the darkness. And Lilly sang too, all small and fragile. She knew this place was safe and the place also knew she was safe. Hey sang together until the song was done.
Lilly grew tired and sat down, resting against the place that sang. The bones of the Earth shifted after eons of waiting. Lilly was lifted by the bones of wood and crystal and rain.
She woke up for the second time and this time her room looked like it did most days. There was no darkness in the closet save that which belonged there as its rightful place. There were no bones, although she could still smell something akin to the spores that mark the end of a storm. Sadly, Lilly couldn’t hear the song anymore and she couldn’t remember the song, although there was a hint of an echo and she held onto it as best she could.