Entrances and long corridors, filled with shafts of light, motes of dust awhirl in them. I move down them like a wraith, listening at doorways, flattening myself into alcoves at the sound of approaching footfalls. At intersections I turn: left, right, left.

Chill corridors with stone floors give way to thick carpets and rugs, piled one on top of the other, that eat sound. In one hallway water drips from a baby stalactite to form a filthy puddle on the uneven slate tile. I skirt the puddle, lips curling in distaste.

Half-heard voices issue from rooms, from doors and curtained alcoves and windows made of stained glass. Whispers in languages I don’t know come to me, sourceless, directionless. I hear muttered murder plots, conspiracies against generals long dead.

I wake from my dream, find myself sleepwalking down the same corridors, hearing the same voices. No one is here but me. Alone, I dream on my feet.

I dream of the man that killed me, and of my revenge, long delayed. I dream of my mother, of my son.