No Questions Asked

[victorianflorist]

You turn away from the bowl for a moment, your finger beginning to drip as blood continues to seep from the small wound oddly quickly, you think back to the times you tested your grandmother's blood sugar but push the painful reminiscence back down.

You are still in what now feels like a small room, on all sides are stoic stone walls, with the gargoyle and basin in front of the fourth. Your station wagon and the diner are nowhere to be seen.

You feel oddly compelled to revisit the spiral in the basin, and gently trail your wounded finger along the groove absentmindedly. Your blood pools readily within the rut, flowing slightly downwards. You draw your finger along the rest of the groove pulling it from the center outwards. The wound closes rapidly on your finger as you cross the rim of the basin. The spiral is now completely painted with your blood.

It drains slowly into the center, pooling in the terminus of the spiral. From the blood emerges a pristine key, crafted of red, unidentifiable metal.