I Will Follow You Into the Dark
The room is filled with smoke and angles of light and dark. It smells of cigarettes and wet cement and, strangely, gardenias—just a hint of floral sweetness, a faint promise of springtime in the humid air. You are not alone. A man moves through the room like a ghost. How long has he been locked away from the sun? His shadow blends with the dark. Maybe he is like the fish that live in caverns, their eyes pale and wide, peering and peering and peering through darkness for light that will never arrive.
But no. There is light. An outline of brightness shaping the edges of a door. He reaches. Is he afraid? Moisture clings to his shirt and beads on his hair. He is wet. You are wet.
The door opens into a rectangle of white light. Harry steps through. You follow.