A terrible headache pounded in his head, just behind his eyeballs. He was laid sprawled out on his back with the very dull light just barely shone through the windows, greatly irritating his eyes to the point where he reached up and tried to rub them. He realized that was a mistake rather quickly; his hands have wax on them from the candle he had apparently been holding. The wax was still rather warm and it was easy to peel off in its soft and almost liquefied state. He must have been crazy thinking he could carry a candle with his bare handsâ€¦ On that thought, why exactly was he carrying a candle with his bare hands he thought to himself as he eyes the little flame with curiosity.<br/><br/>He sat up slowly, feeling groggy, careful not to burn himself with the dying candle, holding said candle out to get a better look at where he was.<br/><br/>The lighting from the candle has just about had it but he had no choice but to rely on it to get his bearings. The room was small yet sizable and there seemed to be nothing in it but an old desk and a bookshelf. A rotting chair sat at the desk and the books appeared as though they have not been touched in ages. There was an eerie sense of loneliness in the room overall. He tried to remember what he had been doing before he collapsed in this room but nothing was coming to him; it was like someone or something had wiped his memory clean. He couldnâ€™t even tell you what he ate for breakfast this morningâ€¦ it was evening, right? He wasnâ€™t even sure, he only judged by how the sun was coming in.<br/><br/>A groan escaped him when he tried to stand; his legs felt almost nonresponsive but he eventually got to his feet, though slowly. When he stood up, he noticed a note fall out of his pocket. He read it curiously, taking in every word. â€œMy name is Maxwellâ€¦â€ he said to himself as if he made some grand discovery. But the note itself had not made any lick of sense what so ever, and he felt lost. Petals? What petals? And who is Alexander? Nothing was clicking in his mind no matter how much he thought; the darkness clouding his thoughts still there. It made him feel dizzy. Staggering a bit, he walked over to the desk and leaned against it.<br/><br/>The wood felt old, neglected, but the desk itself was still grand in appearance showing that is has aged well despite its neglect. There was also an old globe on the desk but he wasnâ€™t sure if it held any significance or importance to his current situation. He wasnâ€™t really sure of anything right now at all in general. There were numerous torn papers scattered on the desk, as well as a pen and its ink vial. It looked as if it was recently used as well. Had he written that note? And if so what for? Was it a reminder or a warning? Questions continued to attack him relentlessly that he found himself becoming overwhelmed. For a moment, he set the candle in the holder on the desk and buried his face in his hands feeling like he wanted to scream.<br/><br/>Once he collected himself, he looked around the room again and discovered there was a door leading out. That was common, right? Somehow it seemed too good to be true. Maxwell decided to try it anyway, pushing away from the desk. His stride was slow, his feet as well as his entire body feeling heavy, and when he finally reached it to his surprise the door was unlockedâ€¦