My thoughts were a little muddled. There were simply too many things I didn't understand.
I couldn't move, either. I could only be dragged along, over the threshold and into another room.
I caught a whiff of something. I strained my eyes, but still couldn't see a thing.
The person went into an inner room, leaving me outside.
I tried to float, only to discover that my body had substance now. I couldn't move around like a ghost at all.
All I could do was roll over laboriously a couple of times, and finally get a look at the room inside.
It looked like some sort of studio. Someone was painting the porcelain dolls.
That made sense.
I looked around again. These rooms all seemed to be workshops. Compared with modern art studios, though, they were not only old-fashioned, but also rather crude and cramped.
I saw two damaged doors, as well as some rotten, moldy tables and chairs.
The rooms were dirty inside and out. There were even cobwebs in the corners.
The porcelain dolls couldn't compare to mass-produced items rolling off modern factory assembly lines. Nor were they handmade masterpieces by some great artist. This was just a small workshop from ancient times.
Even so, from a distance, the porcelain dolls looked bright and beautiful.
I heard footsteps behind me. By the time I tried to get out of the way, it was too late. A crowd of people trampled over me as they passed.
I felt thoroughly annoyed. I wondered what these people were doing, but as soon as they spoke, I realized I couldn't understand them.
This sort of accent and dialect problem wasn't new to me.
Especially in dreams that spanned such a long stretch of time...
I suddenly remembered the Treasure Bowl.
When I