The waiting room remains unchanged.
At first glance.
Pale walls bleed into the dull, steady hum of overhead lights that never flicker, a hum that seeps into my bones like a low, constant chant. The air is thick with that familiar smell—a mix of old paper, faint mildew, and something sterile, too clean to be comforting.
But beneath the sameness, something in me has shifted.
A tremor of awareness, like the faintest vibration under still water.
There is a door here—the door I have never opened.
It sits heavy and silent at the far end of the room, its surface cold and unyielding, framed by the double doors I have stared at for so long. I have never reached for it before. Not fully.
Maybe fear held me back.
Or maybe the waiting itself was a tether, anchoring me in place.
Today, the tether loosens.
My legs move—slow, uncertain steps that echo softly against the linoleum. Each footfall feels like crossing a boundary I barely remember, as if I'm walking toward a place I've been before but forgot.
The other figures—the man with the threadbare coat, the woman with the book, the boy tapping his fingers, the woman in green, the silent watcher by the door—they are gone.
Vanished like smoke carried off by a sudden breeze.
For the first time, I am utterly, undeniably alone.
My heart hammers in my chest, the sound loud and alien in the quiet room.
I reach out with a trembling hand toward the cold metal handle.
It feels colder than I imagined—as if it carries the chill of all the waiting that ever was.
I pause.
A breath catches in my throat, ragged and uncertain.
The room waits with me—breathing, silent, watching.
I want to ask what lies beyond that door.
Is it another room? Another moment lost to time?
Or is it something different?
A place where the clock finally ticks.
Where time wakes from its endless slumber.
I close my eyes for a moment, the faint hum in the ceiling rising and falling like a distant tide.
Then, slowly, I pull.
The door creaks open, breaking the stillness like a secret revealed.
Beyond is darkness—thick and all-consuming.
It stretches endlessly, swallowing the edges of my vision, pressing close like the inside of a skull.
I step forward, swallowed whole by the void.
Cold, soft, and complete.
Then, as if from nowhere, a soft golden light spills into the darkness.
It is warm and liquid, flowing across the floor like honey warmed by sunlight.
Shapes begin to emerge—figures standing still, watching.
Familiar.
Strange.
They seem more solid here, less like whispers, less like shadows.
Their eyes turn toward me—wide, expectant, and strangely kind.
A woman steps forward—a figure in pale blue.
Her hair curls softly around her face, and her eyes hold a quiet sadness that feels like a memory.
She smiles.
The smile I saw once before, fleeting and distant, but here it lingers, real and warm.
I reach out toward her—
My fingers brush air.
Suddenly, the light dims, swallowed by darkness once more.
The door closes behind me with a whisper that sounds like a sigh.
I am back.
The waiting room wraps around me like a shroud.
The pale walls, the humming lights, the cold, silent clock hanging above the doors.
The clock's hands remain frozen, refusing to move.
The air presses in on me, thick and still.
I am trapped.
In this place where time sleeps.
Where waiting is endless.
Where the only sound is the slow, steady beating of my own heart—an echo in the silence.
And I wonder, as I sit once more in my worn chair, if the door will ever open again.
Or if I am destined to wait forever.