What does it mean to find order within chaos, the way certain laws of physics do? The moment you understand it, the whole world feels a little different.

This may not be a game in the traditional sense. There are no monsters chasing you, no jump scares lurking around corners, not even a puzzle to solve.

All you can do is listen to the sound of the water and walk on, quietly, through a liminal space built of white tile and falling rain.

And the only thing you'll ever need to decide is this: when are you ready to leave.

At one moment you round a warm, humid corner of the pool, push open a door, and come face to face with a sprawl of Soviet-era architecture. At another you're still wandering a maze of overpasses deep in the night, only to descend a staircase and arrive at a poolside drenched in grass and sunlight.

Sometimes you become a flat silhouette crossing a bridge in the dark. Sometimes you pass through a subway tunnel and glimpse a distant planet.

The logic of these spaces may not always hold together.

Perhaps it's even a little clumsy.

Space is born from space, the way a bird gathers twigs for its nest. And light, too, answers the questions that light itself asks.

If you just want a quiet place to sit and watch the water, to rest for a while, then you're welcome to slip into fibbtry.

So when you're ready, go ahead and open that door.

May the crabapple blossoms bloom in your dreams.