Endless Hallway

The hallway wasn’t long, but it never ended. The carpet was damp in places that looked

dry. Every door was labeled EXIT, and every one was locked.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering in a rhythm that felt intentional—like

breathing. I checked my phone. No signal. No time. The clock on the

wall read 3:17, and no matter how far I walked, it stayed beside me.

I passed the same water stain three times. Then four. Then it waved.

The lights cut out. When they came back on, the hallway was wider.

Too wide. The doors were gone, replaced by smiling floor plans painted directly onto the