Jamison wakes to a pale sky and hard stone splayed beneath his back.
Sweet smelling flowers cluster by his head. The surrounding garden breathes with the passing winds, soft blades of grass whispering unintelligible secrets by his ears. The air is cool, gentle, the breeze a welcome touch, but no matter how many times he’s come back, everything has a sticky sort of dampness that clings to his clothes and burrows down through his marrow, the kind that hangs around the riverside or amongst weathered gravestones.
Death, he supposes. Not that it ever truly comes.