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The face of a young woman, exploding with golden glass, flies towards us — describe it in fantastical, excruciating detail.She didn't emerge from a doorway, but from the very air of the lobby itself — as if high resolution was slowly resolving over a low-bit, corrupted background. In the first second, I couldn't understand why my gaze wouldn't catch on her face. It didn't reflect light. It *collected* it. Her skin had the hue of morning frost on ceramics: milky-white, but with a deep, almost porcelain translucency. Not deathly — no. Alive, but otherworldly. A fine web of capillaries showed at her temples not in pink, but in a pale, cerulean blue, like a river map drawn in firefly ink. Then I saw the cracks. hen an impulse reached a fork, it hesitated for a moment, split, and the finest capillaries of light flared brighter, then dimmed, leaving behind only a faint phosphorescent afterglow. She was walking towards us — but she wasn't looking. Her gaze was directed through, beyond, past. Her pupils were unnaturall
