Schuldig has the falling dream again. He sits up, rubbing the tension from his forehead and jaw, sliding his feet over the edge of the bed and into the chilly air. Now the hard part; leaning forward, hands gripping the blankets, toes pointed and easing down- down- down- finally making contact.
The floor is cold, hard and solid. No tremors, shifting or sliding, just damned cold. Not the profane marble of a temple created by an impossibly wealthy, unholy trinity, just a thin carpet in a horribly cold hostel.
He pokes the floor with his toe. And again. "Not broken."