It appears you can only dream of memory and fear:
you spread your arms as wide as they will,
crooking them slightly for leverage,
and you dig your fingers in—
your left drags through crumbling brick,
your right slicks back the wallpaper,
leaving before you, in this abandoned place,
rubble and the moldy remains of a wall.
Recommendation: The Infernal Devices trilogy by Cassandra Clare.
While this poem is not a prequel, but a ghost stanza between the two stanzas of Notes, the out-of-order telling of a story or idea made writing it a deeper experience.