There was a certain strangeness about the place she was at - there was no other word for it - a dark, musty alleyway with crude neon words glistening in the darkness on the dirty grey slates of the wall, long spindly fingers of lichen meandering around the cracks of the dirty grey floor. Dirty, maybe, but still grey. Joyce smelt something faintly reminiscent of lemon, but thought that the scent (odour? fragrance? it was somewhere between the two) was little to do with her olfactory sense but rather was a conjuration of the mystic depths of her brain - a somewhat magnificent wreck - that governed her memories. The place was what, she thought wryly, her mother, who spoke a crass colloquail rendition of English, would call ulu. Yes, definitely desolate and deserted, for it seemed that no other living animal but her was there, and the shocking green of the moss that thrived here amidst a world of grey and white only told of abandonment and the sense of a place long forgotten.

For a few moments, she wondered how she had gotten here. But why would that matter, Joyce concluded, so long as she was here now, not at home or her office or anywhere else? She walked on without any sense of purpose or direction, her strident office-style stilettos puncturing the spongy, mossy ground made uneven by the elaborate network of cracks, the crunching of dried leaves beneath her feet punctuating every step she took.

Rustling, within the shrubs of shrivelled-up bushes to her right. Joyce started - but startled was all she felt, not fearful or frightened. It was as if a cold, thick blanket had been wrapped around her, only allowing her a vague awareness of her surroundings, her hearing muffled, her vision almost greyscale - not that there was much to see besides the dark green and black hues of the alley. Rustling again, and a small brown labrador appeared, eyes glowing a dull red, but bright enough to pierce through the black of the night.

Joyce realised, with only a slight twinge of child-like excitement, that it was the stray that frequently prowled the neighbourhood of her childhood, occasionally gambolling around with the children of the estate during their playtime. More often than not, she would get a sound beating for playing with such a dirty creature, usually accompanied by a lengthy lecture about cleanliness and hygiene and rabies. The dog had been found dead precisely a month before her eighth birthday, but at that moment Joyce did not reflect upon its death with any puzzlement or bewilderment but with meek acceptance and as matter of fact.

In fact, it was only after she had already walked for a few more minutes before Joyce wondered if she, too, was dead.