Knock knock

Nastya blinked slowly, running a calloused hand over her eyes.

"Blyat," she muttered, staring at the blank wall in front of her. It had happened again. She'd seen a door this time, but it wasn't there. She knew she'd been told that, sometimes, the brain caught itself between waking and sleep. Sometimes it couldn't quite tell the difference between what was real and what was dream. It happened to her more often than most.

At least that was what the priest her mother brought around had said. Or, rather, he called himself a priest. It didn't matter. She couldn't remember much of him now that the thought struck her, and the memory slipped away like a minnow through reeds.

The rattling wall behind her pulled her fully into consciousness. She hoped. She stood, backing away from the wall. It looked the same as the rest, now. Somewhere in the fog of her half-waking memory she thought she might have heard a voice as well. She started rapping on the wall in a steady rhythm before she spoke.

"Privyet?" She knocked louder.

"Y a-t'il une personne ici?" She opened her hand, palm flat as she pounded.

"Hello! Anyone here?!" The bones of her hand were starting to ache, the nerves buzzing and numb with overstimulation.

She kept pounding the wall regardless. A locked door was one thing. A room without one? That was a tomb. And Nastya Nikolaevna was not about to die.

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