It's cold. Cold and empty and damning. The abyss runs deep and endless, dark as it swallows whole the hope and beauty and light of souls trapped within it. It is still, empty, lifeless - but it is wild and untamed and ruthless. The abyss is as dead as it is alive. Sentient as a human would be, lifeless as a corpse without a doubt is. The abyss is a contradiction; a flaw in the otherwise well-oiled machine of the universe. It is right and it is wrong. It is life and it is death. The abyss is empty. It is filled to the brim. The abyss. Or, as others call it, Limbo. It is there that souls await their judgement, it is there that souls wander the hazy realms of darkness. It is there that they relive their lives (their deaths) over and over and over again - until they are lost; until their minds are lost and they can return to life no longer. (It is from there that she is born.) ----- Eyes the colour of storm-clouds flutter open, and she takes in her surroundings - takes in the stark white room that held her, takes in the scent of antisceptic and the whirring of machines. She remembers then. Remembers who she is, who she was and who she never again will be. The door opens, creaks, and grey eyes meet that of lavender. "Took you long enough to wake up." (And the wheel of fate continues to turn.)