It's up for debate just how long Daniel had been standing there in front of the fire. Seeing it without seeing it, entirely unmoving, barely even blinking-- mentally checked out. In a place where nothing and no one can touch him. Considering he'd been dead before this, it likely isn't a surprising reaction. And he looks a fright, too: he obviously hasn't slept in days. But, like every other time before, Daniel comes back to himself eventually, shifting his gaze from the fire and up to the mantle. The room still doesn't completely register.

The painting is what snaps him back into focus, squinting at it. He's seen it before, making it at least something familiar. "Death and the Maiden," he murmurs, the small facts starting to filter in. Thirteen works of art. Looking around? Thirteen glasses, the face of that clock entirely off, thirteen seats. It's everywhere. Even the walls.

All right, Daniel supposes this isn't nearly as bad as far as dreams go. It can't exactly be anything else, right?

Daniel finds himself sitting down in one of the chairs with a long exhale, rubbing at his tired and aching eyes. His head felt like it was going to split in two.