turnback
There is a single spotlight on the floor in the middle of the room. It looks like something that should be hanging from the catwalk in a theatre but instead it’s facing straight up, illuminating a perfect circle of ceiling in a sickly white-yellow light. Its cord trails off to one corner where it passes through a hole in the baseboard.
It’s bright enough to leave a momentary after-image burned into your eyes when you first glance into it and then look away.
It looks like a rorschach test image of a face you once knew well but haven’t remembered in years.