The scent of white rose perfume filled the room.
W... where am I...? The voice echoed inside his head alone.
I remember I was shot at my presidential office...
He rubbed his hand firmly over the smooth planes of his body.
No blood...?
Anyhow... how is it so very comfortable in here...?
Light burned against his eyelids. He blinked—once, twice—and the room assembled itself around him. A window. Why was there a window above him? He'd fallen asleep at his desk. The ceiling should be mahogany panels, not... this.
A small notification popped up.
Welcome, Joseph.
"J...Jo..." he whispered quietly.
"You woke up!" a voice cut sharply through the room.
His breath caught in his throat as the girl stepped closer, her white dress catching the light from the window, her smile too kind, too knowing, like she could see straight through his careful mask.
A white-haired girl stood before him, holding a small plate.
"Good morning, Joseph!" she said kindly.
The girl stepped quickly toward him, a wide smile spread across her face. Her white dress floated faintly around her.
Is this actually a dream? He rubbed his eyes. Once he rubbed them again, nothing changed—except that the girl stepped closer.
"Are you okay, Joseph?" the girl said, blinking twice, her eyes fixed on him.
She placed the plate slowly on the table.
"I think so." He stood, brushed off his pants; a pointless gesture, since they weren't dirty. His hands moved with practiced precision, but his fingers trembled. Smile. Just smile at her.
I shouldn't make this strange girl suspicious. He approached the window.
His movements felt rehearsed, almost stiff. He could feel her eyes following him.
Calm, he told himself. Just be calm.
"You don't look okay... Joseph..." Her voice softened as she tilted her head.
He placed both hands against the window, like he'd slammed them on a desk.
The real question... how to be okay here?! His fingers splayed against the glass.
White houses crowded the view. Too many. Too close. Like someone had taken a Victorian postcard and bleached it, drained every shadow, every imperfection. The horses moving through the street weren't brown or black—they were white. Who breeds white horses? All of them?
Victorian figures in white moved gracefully along the streets. White horses trotted along the road. But it was a humble village, rather than a rich one.
The village didn't move. No wind stirred the curtains. No voices carried from the street. Yet the horses' eyes tracked him through the window, unblinking. A door somewhere clicked shut, though no one had touched it.
The silence pressed against his eardrums. His jaw ached, when had he started clenching it? The girl just stood there, watching, waiting for him to... what? Scream? Cry? Beg for answers? He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
"Joseph."
Her hand hovered near his shoulder, close enough that he felt the warmth of it through his jacket. When her fingers touched the fabric, a shiver raced down his spine. Every nerve screamed run, but his body betrayed him, frozen. He couldn't even make himself look at her.
"I'm okay." The words came out flat. "Just... give me a minute."
He crossed to the sofa, each step measured, controlled, and sank into the cushions before his legs gave out.
Why does everything have the same color? He pressed his hands to his head, trying to steady himself.
Okay... what happened yesterday?... Remember.
Once he closed his eyes, memories tumbled in his mind, relentless.
"Prez! You got those papers to sign!"
"Mr. President, you've got 10 missed calls."
"Mr... President... Mr. President..."
"PRESIDENT!" He let out a wild, desperate shout.
The girl rushed to hold his hand.
"Joseph, what's wrong with you?!" She grabbed his hand, her grip tight enough to hurt. Her eyebrows pulled together, and her mouth hung half-open, like she was waiting for him to collapse.
Joseph remained silent. The girl clutched her hands to her chest, her knuckles white, her breathing shallow. Then, sudden, jarring, he laughed.
"At last... a life free from these endless responsibilities!"