Simma was falling... falling through terrains of flashing lights, streaks of memories whizzing past him like fireflies gone mad. He whooped past moments of his own past and echoes of others, tumbling downward as though he and gravity had gotten into a quarrel and gravity was determined to win.
His hair was plastered backward, his face scrunched tight, cheeks puffing like dough in an oven.
The place around him was white. White... so very white it felt as if he had been dropped into the belly of a cloud. But the whiteness was constantly stained, stabbed through by bursts of memory, blurred yet vivid, each one zooming past at a fascinating speed.
And then...
thump.
He hit the ground.
The landing came so abruptly, so mercilessly, that his knees almost buckled. His feet throbbed, his legs pulsed under the sudden weight of his own body, and Simma staggered like someone waking from a dream mid-fall.
