I see a light in the distance as I approach, a neon-blue sign, like a lighthouse, guiding this lost vessel. The sign is surrounded by dull yellow lights, softening its harsh glare. I amble along cautiously, each step met with the crunch of gravel beneath my feet. The crisp breeze beats the side of my face, carrying memories of childhood, reminding me of the way things used to be. Drawing nearer, I gaze upon the sign, “The Fountain Inn,” it says, “Rooms Available.” A lighted tree is rooted in the distance, beckoning for me to come closer. I pause. Oddly, I feel as though I’ve seen it before, perhaps in a dream, or maybe in a picture. I resume my journey, seeking a memory from the chatoyant lights in the distance.
Walking through a glass door, I hear the off-key chime of a bell, the purr of a small cat. Looking up from my feet, I find that the room bears an air of familiarity. I look around, the faint laughter of children ringing through the walls. I see where a young boy learned to jitterbug, where a scraped knee was bandaged, and I feel as though I am home. Five feet from me is an elderly women of average height, wearing a mustard yellow sweater. She sits behind a splintered wooden desk, sipping a mug of fragrant black coffee, the New York Times crossword puzzle in her hands.Behind her I notice a clock, the hands moving backwards. I begin to clear my throat to notify the woman of my presence, but I find that she is already looking at me, greeting me with the tattered remnants of what once was a hearty New-England accent. I inquire about a room.
She hands me a key, and I offer her money, but she refuses it. Standing up, she leads me to my room—room 16. As I enter, a wave of deja vu comes over me. I’m watching my childhood—the damp smell of the room evokes a barrage of feelings, convincing me that my instinct of familiarity was correct. I lay my head down on the pillow only to be violently awoken. I open my eyes to find that there is no bed, but only dirt. Rising from the earthy sheets I look around, only to find that there are no lights, there is no colorfully lit tree, no off-key bell chiming, no cat purring. The woman in the mustard yellow sweater is gone, the crossword remains unfinished, the neon-blue sign has been removed.
Now for the sweetness. 
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