There's a room. Though what makes it a room is unknown; there are no walls or ceiling, just endless white. And in the middle sits a girl. Her face is hidden, skewed by the hair that sticks to her skin, seemingly dampened by her tears. But she is not crying. She is screaming, though her mouth is not open. No noise comes out. And yet her screams echo is the endless room, filling the void with a denseness that weighs down on her lifeless being. Though she is not dead. She could have easily been mistaken for a statue of marble had it not been for the short, almost silent breaths that she takes.
In that room, she remains. Crying but not crying. Screaming but not screaming. She sits, waiting. What for, she does not know, but she knows she must wait. And so she does.
