It is dark, but not pitch, with no shadow of movement from the curtain-bottom. Since the imagined window gutter is low and near, any interuptions in its illumination will be visible only when something is close-pressed against you. Your body beyond the curtain tingles with exposure, but your head is safe. You wink to your still dark-attuning eye, keeping your head tilted woundwards and away from the line of light. The dark slowly turns gritty, the grain of old film stock. You wink back and check for shadows in the light. None.
In the darkness: there are boxes or crates, vague all around you. Any true walls beyond must be spaced farther apart than the width of the entryway, so not a nook at all, a full room, but shallow. Your bubble of resolving vision is around two-square-boxes in volume. Beyond that, you can sense only verticality and confinement. There is no carpet or matting under your head, you can feel the roughness of unfinished wood, the gaps and raisings of planking, the tiny cold of a nail or screwpoint against an earlobe.
In the light: nothing.
In the darkness: the boxes appear to be dog-sized and straight-sided, probably wooden, something industrial rather than domestic. You cannot see the ceiling, your bubble is not quite three-square-boxes and holding, but dim in details. If you assume this space and the prior share a height then the boxes may be stacked six high. The room might be as much as four boxes to a side at its base, with the space immediately around you being box free. Looking upwards through their collected middle feels like staring down into a pit. The line of light from tableside, still carefully avoided, glows like a tiny townscape from the direction of your torso, enough to interfere with your perception of the darkness but not enough to illuminate it.
In the light: a smokey drift. Clouds overhead, perhaps.
In the darkness: everything beyond three-square-boxes is a spinning mess of specks and black. Your breathing normalises. Faintly audible somewhere off to your right is a long click scratch, closer than the rain, a wood-on-wood sound, with a ricketing or ratcheting behind it. You wonder if there is some path towards it from this new space. All the while you listen for a chase, perhaps the entity-from-the table is now the entity-just-beyond-the-curtain, observing your headless torso and limbs. You self-consciously act out your movements, your breathing and fidgeting under strict control, as though you are being watched, as though you are trying to communicate to that audience.
In the light: nothing.