The scent of jasmine wafted through the open window.  He breathed deep.  Truly, this was a different place.  As he continued to climb the stairs, he looked out the window to his right and gasped.  The grey sky from down below was gone.  Now there was only blue sky as far as his eye could see, even to the horizon.  Below him green foliage waved cheerfully.  The tops of trees, he realized.  From above it was difficult to identify the types of trees, but they were large, that he knew.  Yet it seemed as if he looked out upon a carpet of living green tendrils, welcoming and inviting.

The sky glowed an even deeper blue.  The sun was nowhere to be seen and if he had to guess, it was surely not far past noon.  Yet the breeze floating through the window was cool and crisp and he breathed in the scent of jasmine once more.  He came to himself and found that he was standing still at the window, captured by the glories of the day, enraptured by the true found stories.  He had heard tell of this, but even now, he didn’t know how it was possible.  This was a dead world.  Or so he had been told.  Where did this life come from?  Was it a dimensional pocket extrusion or a fancy holographic illusion?  He doubted it.  Even the finest light tech couldn’t replicate such beauty as lay before him.  Maybe it was a different universe.  Indeed, he thought his own incapable of this.  Maybe in Old Earth.  Not here.  Not now.

And now he understood why some would come to pilgrimage here.  Now he knew why some would come to live a half-remembered dream.  Even if he didn’t truly understand where or how or why he was, he did not doubt that he was.  He breathed in deep.  Again the jasmine.  Again the light of the heavens startled him with its brilliance.  Surely it was not possible for something to be so blue.

He supposed he should keep climbing.  He had been standing at the window for what could have been either hours or days.  He knew not.  With a sigh, he turned and stepped upwards.  He knew he dare not linger, even though he felt as if he may never see such a glorious sight with his own eyes again.

As he continued up the stairs, it seemed that the staircase started to spiral in a tighter circle, that possibly the stairs began to narrow.  He wasn’t sure, so gradual was the change.  The deep mahogany of the handrail felt warm beneath the skin of his hand as he ascended.  His legs now seemed incapable of stopping.  Upward and onward.

Every few steps he would pass another window of blue radiance and he would smell jasmine and honeysuckle and he would feel the wind caress his cheek.  Yet he did not stop for he knew that what he sought was nigh.  What he sought!  But he sought for nothing, that’s what he had told the old man down below, so long ago now.  The old man in his violently violet robes, welcoming him in a voice that had seemed overly pretentious and full of joy at the time.  Now the man wondered.  Was everything coming true?

He wasn’t a pilgrim, he had told the old man.  Pilgrims are fools, blinded by the whispered glories of a dead past.  Why was he here?  Well, it was simple – he had superiors who had superiors who in a most superior fashion had declaimed desires of revealing what lay beneath the pernicious rumours.  And he was the least threatening of his kind, so of course he would be the one sent.  To discover and learn and seek the truth.  To expose, as he thought of it.  To rip the curtain back from the hallowed temple of the weak-minded.

And so he had entered the squat building earlier this morning (week?  Month?  Year?) and despite the cheap ceramic-overlaid interior décor, he had smiled as he heard strains of Rachmaninoff’s 2^nd faintly echoing, as if from a far-off room.  And then the old man had ruined everything with his ridiculous grand entrance and pretentious posturing and vain attempts to justify the existence of the Tower.

Despite the old man’s pleas, he had ignored all the scribblings and carvings.  He had seen the same such artifacts countless times before.  Forward to the main attraction, forward to the staircase.  At least he knew of the staircase now, after his…encounter of the night before.  Gooseflesh rose.  He would not recall those memories.

But now he climbed.  And at the bottom he was a man who believed nothing and ventured everything because what was there to lose?  Now as his hand gripped the rail tightly, he shuddered.  Did he believe?  Could he believe?

 A doorway loomed ahead.  There were no more stairs.  The door was small, barely taller than his own height.  It was of oaken appearance, inlaid with finely wrought metallic elements.  Light glowed and pulsed amongst the metal engravings.  Warming, welcoming light.  His hand left the railing and he grasped at the doorknob.  It was cool and smooth under his touch, and it seemed to melt into his hand as if his hand was the only key that could unlock the door.

He shuddered again.  In fear?  In bliss?  He did not know.  What had they done to him?

What were they doing to him?

He could not resist any longer.

He ever so slightly turned the doorknob.

And the door swung open.