Again, just like last time. Everything stopped as soon as I stepped into the darkness. My mind separated from my nonexistent body. The voice came again. It was angry, but in a different way? The kind of angry a parent might get when their child almost walks out into a busy street. Why did it care?

Before I could make heads or tails of anything, memories came to me again. Wooden desks, a wall of windows, dozens of kids, a chalkboard, and a clock on the wall. I would glance at the clock every few minutes to see if it was different, but it would barely move. Every minute felt like an hour.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The next memory was of the forest. Tall green and brown giants, the setting sun, me and my friends… three hours running around with them felt like five minutes. It was never enough.

Do these memories have anything to do with the previous one? Who’s the voice?