not so dustless now

[dustless]

In one of the castle's many halls, a worn tapestry, depicting nothing in particular, succumbs to age and rot and falls.

Behind it lies a door.

Behind that door, should anyone decide to investigate, is a musty-smelling room with drawings papering the walls, corners gently curling in, and dust covering every inch of furniture; a desk, a chair, a bed. 

Despite it all, the bed is occupied. 

Frisk lies there on their side, half-covered in blankets, exposed skin and shirt just as dust-coated as the rest of the room. Their chest raises and falls shallowly enough that a spider's made a fancy web between the collar of their shirt and a hand curled close to their body.

It might take a little work to rouse them.

Comments

[dustless]

They're usually better at keeping it together. Knowing that just has their stomach sinking lower.

Right. They're remembering. "Lookit what? Hate this place," they mutter, making sure their legs are staying steady.

Still, it's home, they're also remembering. Maybe this is what it does to people who don't want to go somewhere else.

Frisk looks at the mess of their room. "...I gotta clean," they say helplessly.