Sometimes, half asleep or delirious, like from behind a paper wall we hear in our minds strange words or see strange pictures. Shadows or glimpses of what didn’t happen, won’t happen, wouldn’t happen. Or did it, will it, would it? How could the impossible be possible? How could an ordinary being to comprehend the Impossible and then go back to live an ordinary life? Will this being’s values stay unshattered afterwards?
The retreat at the Crossroads looked as a giant spaceship mostly buried underground. Like a metallic iceberg the very top of which is just above the surface. In the gaps between blossoming vines travellers could see dull bronze shine of (presumably) an alien contraption, all rivets and elegant curves.
Soon the hostess would come out, barefoot, ageless, long worn dress with unearthly patterns, platinum blond hair in a messy bun. She would offer a cup of herbal tea at a wooden table in a wild lush garden. Her mysterious blue eyes would carefully study you. If you are lucky she would offer a room to stay. Inside you’ll find aged red damask fabric on the walls, plenty of dull bronze-like metal and other discolored leftovers of once opulent alien interior. The hostess will talk to you a bit. Be honest because lying won’t work. Be honest and you might hear a story or two of travelling between worlds, of danger and laughter, of friendship and love. She will talk to you because she is waiting and had been waiting for a very long time. She need to know when a right person will knock on her oval alien door.