White Christopher
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in His room. And that glimpse confused her quite a bit. For there was a small garden of various fruits, falling from a trio of trees, and clusters there on the circular patch of grass of peaches, apples and pears. Beyond that: numbers and stars, infinitely so, and she could not tell which came first. Her better judgement assumed that the vast array of shimmering celestial spheres were far beyond the fields of raining digits, but the instinctual voice of her subconscious kept nagging at her that the numbers were even deeper back than the stars. Anyhow, it didn’t really matter, because she was White Christopher, just another captive soul to the White Christopher who ran the Ore from on high, and she had never been allowed access to any of the inclinators in all her sixteen long years of life.
