Morning: Gerome had chosen, that day, to sit. He found a tree and under it's shade he sat. His mask had been removed. Why? He wasn't terribly sure. But in a fit of... something... he had decided it was not needed.

The light, strange as it was, was warm where it touched the him. The breeze cool and smelling faintly of flowers.

As mornings went, it was possibly the calmest, most relaxing he had ever enjoyed in his life.


Walking up that hill: It was his second time climbing the mountain, but this time he wasn't sure why.

Gerome thought to question it, debated with himself on turning back, even as another foot followed the next. The path was well worn, he was clearly not the first to have made this ascent.

The question was; why?


The Mountain: He sat away from anyone else. Why he had scaled the mountain, he didn't know. But the calm of the morning had dissipated for Gerome. His mask was back on. He kept himself away from others, head lowered, gazing down at his hands.

What was he doing there? What was going on? And why was he feeling another pull to touch that strange goo?