"I -- I suppose, yes. I don't think you can make it worse, just by looking at it. I don't know how much you'll find, but..." Herbert sighs and rests his forehead against Alfred's. Like that might help, somehow. "I don't know how much you'll see. Even I don't know what's in there."

There is something. Footsteps. A faint, whistled tune. The ticking of a clock. Or perhaps it's another, similar noise. A soft, even tch. tch. tch. sort of noise. A flash of teeth (too many teeth) in the shadows, perhaps. But nothing solid, nothing to grasp onto or piece together. Broken images from a shattered memory.