In the fireplace, the wood burned. He imagined that there were little embers dancing quietly in the hearth, but they were only there in his imagination. In reality, he was not facing the fireplace at all. From where he lay, lying on his side with arms and legs sprawled out over the carpet of the living room (it seemed too strange to call it a den), he faced the far wall and saw nothing. He also imagined that there was a clock ticking, even though he wasn't sure he'd ever seen or heard a working one, and even though he couldn't remember if the house he inhabited even had one anymore, broken or otherwise. It was the best explanation for the uneasiness of the silence, which didn't really feel like silence at all. He was sure there was something making noise that he couldn't quite place -- and so he imagined the clock because it was easier than telling himself that he was crazy. (He already knew that anyway.) Crazy men didn't like to admit that they were crazy after all.
The fire warmed his back, but his skull was cold. His hands were cold, and his feet were cold. His bones were cold, and they ached dully, like perhaps there were a thousand little termites gnawing away at them. He could imagine that too, with his eyes closed. Perhaps they were in the house too, the real one, the metaphoric one. Laruku didn't move or flinch or react when the door opened. He lay there, thinking nothing, wishing nothing, hoping nothing. The cold air from the outside seemed to completely negate the slight warmth of the fire. It was slowly dying anyway. He had more wood to toss on, but he didn't want to move. Ahren,
his voice said, faded, like a tape recording that's been copied over too many times, Why is the fog white?