Pushing it open, you step out onto a cast-iron balcony that clings to the side of the building. Showers of silver rain pour down from the low, gunmetal sky. On either side of you, the red-brick walls stretch away into the grey haze of the rain, featureless, windowless. Above you, the clouds blur the outline of the roof, and below you, all you can see is silver-grey. Rain, mist, water . . . light.

The silver light slices through the clouds and plays on the rain as it falls, plays on the water that seems to lie beneath you, oh so far below. In the distance, all you can see through the rain are flickers of the landscape, maybe a forest, maybe a cliff-face, maybe nothing at all.

Gulls as white as satin flicker through the deluge, swooping and diving amidst the shower of quicksilver, the light flaring white on their rain-soaked wings. They call forlornly, the sound breaking the near-silent, metallic hiss of the falling water.

The rain is pouring down on you, soaking you through with a perfect crystal coolness that makes you shiver. Out in the silvered distance, hidden by clouds and water, something between a voice and the harmony of singing crystal slides through the air. A wordless tongue that speaks of nothing but inexplicable sadness.

The gulls wheel and call amidst the rain.

You close your eyes.

You don't realise you're walking forwards until it's almost too late. Until the cold iron rail about the balcony is pressing against your hips. Your eyes start open and you shiver. Turning around quickly, you leave the voice, and the rain, behind you.