Bruce sighed, the urge to open his eyes was sudden and strong. He let it flow and he opened them.
He was sitting cross-legged on nothing. The ground beneath him, if it was ground, was a soft pale grey, and it gave faintly under his weight in a way that no ground ever had. A white mist surrounded him on all sides, slow-moving, somehow refreshing rather than oppressive. Every breath of it cleared something in him he had not known was clouded. The mist had no source and no direction. It simply was, as if the air itself were lightly luminous.
He looked down at himself. His body, but not his body, at least what looked like his body, was glowing.
A soft, internal light, bleeding gently through the skin, brightest at his chest and palms, faint along the bones of his face. He raised one hand and turned it. The light moved with the hand. It was coming from inside him.
