Your wife. [ Arms uncross. One hand moves to her hip. ] Don't you mean ex-wife, Mr. Wake? Weren't you getting a divorce?
[ Her head cants slightly as she regards him closer. It's clear he has forgotten what he has written in the story while he lives it. Most likely he's had to. Which means he is going through motions semi-blindly. However, it's also obvious that this "story" is still bound to this dark dimension. It has yet to overlap with the location he has intended to reach.
His memories as well aren't as they should be. She can see the door he's come from perfectly. He's... becoming washed out. Perhaps that is the best way to describe it. Details of his life are muddling with other Alan Wakes. Or, he is beginning to forget them entirely. All he can remember are descriptions and nouns. Vague facts.
Her blue eyes look at the pages in his hands. He must remember a sister and a brother. A sister having a powerful connection to another entity. She was important. She should be important.
His question causes her eyes to raise to his once more. Where his are gray and lighter and darkened? Hers hide a storm. A storm that he can see the hints of in her gaze. ]
I didn't come here voluntarily. Someone brought me here. [ Her weight slips to her other leg. Then, she gestures to him once more. ] You need to wake up, Alan.
Look up.
[ In the darkened attic room of a cabin, a young woman stands in front of the Writer's desk. A frayed Bob, a period blue dress and bodice, and a bird laden broach on her neck. Her hands are placed on the desk.
no subject
[ Her head cants slightly as she regards him closer. It's clear he has forgotten what he has written in the story while he lives it. Most likely he's had to. Which means he is going through motions semi-blindly. However, it's also obvious that this "story" is still bound to this dark dimension. It has yet to overlap with the location he has intended to reach.
His memories as well aren't as they should be. She can see the door he's come from perfectly. He's... becoming washed out. Perhaps that is the best way to describe it. Details of his life are muddling with other Alan Wakes. Or, he is beginning to forget them entirely. All he can remember are descriptions and nouns. Vague facts.
Her blue eyes look at the pages in his hands. He must remember a sister and a brother. A sister having a powerful connection to another entity. She was important. She should be important.
His question causes her eyes to raise to his once more. Where his are gray and lighter and darkened? Hers hide a storm. A storm that he can see the hints of in her gaze. ]
I didn't come here voluntarily. Someone brought me here. [ Her weight slips to her other leg. Then, she gestures to him once more. ] You need to wake up, Alan.
Look up.
[ In the darkened attic room of a cabin, a young woman stands in front of the Writer's desk. A frayed Bob, a period blue dress and bodice, and a bird laden broach on her neck. Her hands are placed on the desk.
Then, she straightens once he focuses on her.
The Songbird. ]