217 Babel Street | Stairwell
The box fell from Tom's hand. It slipped away as he tumbled, as he flailed, as he cried out, his head hitting the wall.
The woman was bending down to him. Blood on her shirt, her hand. It blurred his vision, a misty red. Where had that come from? "It's OK," she said. "Are you in pain?" Tom couldn't answer properly. Shock had set in, muting his senses. "I need to... I need..." He could not think of the words. The woman said, "You've hurt your head. I'll ring for -" But Tom pushed her away. "Where is it? Where?" He was scrambling around the floor, searching, his hands reaching out. The woman told him to keep still. "My name's Emma. Can you hear me?" Tom looked at her, he stared at her. "Tell me what I'm called?" she asked. Tom could not think. "I have to find it," he said, "The box." Emma calmed him. "Come inside. Let's have a look at you."
Tom let himself be led towards the flat. Apartment 8. A bland white fog had seeped into his skull. Why had he come here, to this strange building? For what purpose? He looked up the stairs. The light bulb buzzed. On and off. On. off. On. Off and on. His mind pulsed to the same rhythm as he followed the woman.
The box lay in the shadows beneath a radiator. It flickered with a light from within: soft, golden.