They called this the waiting room.
It’s where babies stayed for a short while, before they were sent down to earth.
It wasn’t a particularly big room. At least, it didn’t seem too big.
She loked at me oddly.
That’s August. August Lumiere.
There was a thoughtful pause.
We want a song.
Ask your grandfather.
The response was immediate — like a phrase that had been said many times before; and refused to die.