Something from the sequel:
Golden light streamed through polished windows, igniting every speck of dust floating in the air.
I found myself in some house, a cozy little kitchen, to be precise. From my vantage atop the counter, I gazed down upon an alien landscape. Illuminated by stray patches of morning sunlight, mismatched furniture lay about the kitchen, all unused at the moment. Instead of plates, laundry and scattered toys covered a table that seated twelve. Crayon drawings were displayed on the refrigerator, held strong by alphabet magnets. Tiny handprints smeared any exposed part of the fridge. It was a domestic disarray of checkered dish towels and the pungent smell of floral hand soap.
It was all so foreign—so different from After.
Yet hauntingly familiar at the same time.
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