White feathers fall as you move, ever-falling.
They vanish just before they touch the ground - or perhaps merely melt into the down that already covers all as far as your eye can see.
Plume-rings - each contracting circle made of those smaller than the last, infallibly. They make it hard to move, but you move, always.
Until you draw near the centre, where the feathers are smallest, the light brightest. There she sits, all white, save for where she isn't.
"Are you," her voice lilts, but is curiously detached, blinding blue eyes fixing you, ever-falling, "my trouble?"