He marked a few quick cracks, then cross-hatched the hole in the trunk, rubbed splotches of lichen, enjoying the skill in his hands, the way drawing it made him and the tree one creature.

He bent over the page, noticing how his shadow was ultramarine blue on the white cartridge paper with the side of the pencil he shaded in the edge of the bough, feeling the soft fibers of carbon darken the grain. It was what was in him now, working his eyes and fingers. It was the same as the diagram in his biology textbook, a tangle of neurons and dendrites and synapses. Happy is he who sees the one that he loves. Tangly and green, pushing right up against the walls, tapping and knocking. What scares me most, though, are the trees. It never gets darker or lighter, but there are faint stars in strange constellations, billions of them.

It’s hard to be sure, but the sky here seems a sullen, dim twilight. Sometimes I come across a window, and scrub dirt off tiny leaded panes to look out. They echo distantly, but I don’t know what they are. They all look the same-stone-flagged and cobwebbed. Outside the door of the room are endless corridors. He leaves me alone if I scream at him he doesn’t like that. If I do I may be trapped here forever, and I’m not even hungry.

Darkhenge by Catherine Fisher