It has become apparent that the Chambre is not an average room. There is no food here, neither rodent nor insect. Yet despite not eating for three days, my hunger has not grown! Does time truly not pass in the Chambre? Though why must I still sleep?
In addition to the cease of hunger, the ink well in the writing desk does not dry. I have been writing for three days without the well nearing spent. Additionally, the candles do not drip wax, the matchbox is always full, and this journal’s unmarked pages never decrease as I fill them. If all this remains true, then I could continue living in the Chambre and writing in this journal for an indiscernible amount of time.
The first time I encountered the Chambre was when I held Christian Toth’s painting upside-down. As I did so, the world around me suddenly went dark. When I awoke just a second later, I found myself standing in an entirely different room. The bricks were uneven and dark grey, almost cobblestone. It was dark, a few candles on golden sconces shed their amber light. The floor was wood; the ceiling, timber beams.
And my hands…
I looked down to my hands. No, they were not my hands. This skin was pale, dotted with freckles. I had thin feminine fingers, small muscles in my arms, and what was hanging from my chest? My whole body was draped in a lurid purple chamber robe.
I was the lady in the painting!
How was this possible? Was it magic? Was I dreaming?