Narrower

You turn from the hill and go down, and the cave closes in around you. The air is colder here and does not move. The roof and the floor are a wingspan apart, then less. The ring lights less of the cave each time, because there is less of it. The ticks in your wrist come quicker, and then quicker still, and what taps back off the rock is hard and early. You fly the middle.

You have been counting the moths without meaning to. The tenth is only another moth, dry as paper, but when you take it three notes climb through you, and on your left, the side with the notch, the first of the bumps stops aching.

You chirp. Nothing taps back.

You chirp again, longer. All the way down, the rock has answered you, and here, in a place about your size, it does not. You hover in front of it. It is a doorway.