Chapter 1

It is almost midnight.

Outside, the sounds of the street are strange.

Unfamiliar.

Foreign.

Because it is so quiet, the sounds are magnified.

A sheep bleating. 

A 2 stroke motorcycle being started.

A squealing pig.

The crunch of gravel under foot.

A yellow moon is creeping up from the horizon, staining the stucco a eerie blood mustard colour.

The breeze stirs branches in the tree, and the waxy leaves shimmer with subtle golden light from the rising lunar satellite. 

Deafening silence, she thinks, reaching for her Bluetooth micro-buds. White noise tonight and a random story spoken by a some caramel voiced late night DJ. 

A door slams, somewhere in the distance, a sharp angry noise that never reaches her conscious awareness. 

Her ears are filled with noise, white and caramel, and the room and surrounds are instantly silent.

And then, there are alarm sounds. 

She reaches out, arms flailing and unaware. Looking for something to hit.

Crisp sheets crumple, and realises she is waking up from sleep. Slowly and all once, arrives in that remote hotel room with a deep breath. 

Imagines a headline: "Samsung CEO stands trial for notification fail"

Smiles, as if this thought somehow recompenses her being torn out of dreams and zero sound unconsciousness.

And then, the smell of coffee and French pastries. 

Stomach rumbles, and unconsciously her tongue rolls in her mouth, savouring the anticipation of coffee, black and boiling.

The coolness of the air reminds her of school holidays spent at a distant uncles residence in the mountains. The Alps, she remembers, is what they call it in Europe. Uncle is long gone, and now she is at the church and the deep mahogany casket is at the front. She knows his cold body lies within the polished wooden box, but she cannot concentrate because light streams come through stained windows above the coffin and expose a million microscopic particles suspended in air. 

What if this is like life, she wonders, and we are just dust in suspension, a distraction on the lens of creation.

A knock at the door snaps her from reverie. 

Who is it? she says. Her voice sounds crackly like she has just woken up.  

Your breakfast is served, Madam, comes a voice from behind the door. Will you please be seated in the dining room.

Seriously, she thinks to herself.  

Can I get it in my room please. More as a statement than a question.

She hears: 'We can not serve meals in guest rooms, Madam', and then the sound of footsteps.

Irritation flares. Why wake me up and force me to leave me room. 

I'll miss breakfast, she says spitefully to no one in particular, already knowing that she is too hungry to be rebellious.

Stretching, she slides on bedroom slippers and walks across the room to her suitcase, choosing light, modest clothing and comfortable slip-ons. Assembling essentials in a small hip bag - passport, phone, travellers cheques and room key - she throws the case closed and fastens the locking mechanism.

And then she is in the passage, listening for the door clicking closed behind her before turning to take the stairs down, two at a time, to the ground floor and breakfast. 

As she rounds the final set of stairs, there is an uncomfortable feeling in her solar plexus, a foreboding feeling she knows too well.