The air in the waiting room thickens, heavier than it ever has before. It clings to my skin, damp and cold, like a mist rolling in off some forgotten sea. The walls, once soft cream, have dulled to a bruised gray, mottled with shadows that curl and stretch like dark fingers reaching for something just out of grasp. The overhead lights flicker, struggling to hold their glow, casting long, wavering beams that tremble and shiver across the floor.
Every breath I take tastes faintly of dust and old stone, mixed with a strange metallic tang, like blood hiding beneath the surface of the silence. The faint hum of the lights buzzes in my ears, a relentless, buzzing reminder that I am trapped here — caught between moments that refuse to pass and time that has forgotten itself.
I sit rigid in the chair, the rough fabric pressing against my palms, grounding me in this liminal space where reality feels stretched thin and fragile. Around me, the others sit too, their faces drawn tight with exhaustion, eyes reflecting the flickering shadows as if trying to see beyond the walls — beyond the very limits of this prison.
The woman in the black coat watches the cracked door at the far end of the room, her fingers curled so tightly in her lap that her knuckles gleam white. The tall one's jaw is clenched so hard I can almost hear the grinding of teeth beneath the quiet. The boy fidgets with restless energy, a fragile thread of hope and fear tangled in his gaze. The old man, with his weathered skin and slow, measured breath, seems the only one who has accepted the weight of the waiting.
We have been here too long, trapped in this space between worlds, caught in the endless pause where time sleeps.
The cryptic message we clutch at like a lifeline haunts the air, an echo reverberating through the shadows and silence.
"Within the shadow where time sleeps… glin… in… the… evran…"
The last word slips from the voice again — a strange, guttural sound that vibrates against the bones.
"Evran," I whisper, lips trembling as I try to shape the strange syllable.
The woman's eyes flutter closed for a moment, then open, haunted and unsure. "It feels like a name," she murmurs. "A place that should be… or a path we've never seen."
The old man nods slowly, his voice low and cracked like dry leaves. "In some ancient tongues, 'evran' means 'path' — a way through the darkness, or perhaps through ourselves."
I swallow hard. The shadows twist around the edges of the room, thickening and deepening, like ink spilled across the floor, swallowing the faint outlines of the chairs and walls. The scent changes, too — now sharp and acrid, like burnt wood and cold ash, mingled with something organic and damp, like wet earth pressed between cold fingers.
A cold breeze brushes my neck, though there are no windows. I shiver.
The boy's voice breaks through the thick silence, small and uncertain. "If this is the path… the way out… why does it feel like it's closing in on us?"
The woman's gaze softens with a sadness that curls in my chest. "Because sometimes the only way forward is through the darkest pain. To leave, we might have to lose everything we think we are."
I close my eyes, letting the weight of the waiting press down, crushing memories flickering like shattered glass — laughter from long ago, a child's hand held in mine, the warmth of sunlight on skin that no longer remembers the sun.
The room seems to pulse now, the walls breathing slow and heavy, as if alive. The shadows writhe and curl, reaching just beyond the light, whispers echoing in the silence — voices I almost recognize, but can't quite place.
The voice speaks again, softer this time — a lullaby wrapped in warning.
"Within the shadow where time sleeps, glin in the evran… find the door."
The words settle like a stone in my chest, cold and real and undeniable.
The old man exhales deeply, voice steady despite the fear shining in his eyes. "It's a choice. We can wait here forever, or we can step into the unknown and risk what comes next."
I feel the chair creak beneath me as I stand, legs heavy but moving. The others rise too, each step echoing like a drumbeat through the hollow room.
The door at the far end stands silent and still, waiting. The cracked paint seems to shimmer in the flickering light, edges blurred as if the threshold itself is breathing.
I reach out, my hand trembling, the air thick and electric against my skin. The shadows pulse, and the room holds its breath.
Outside, beyond that door, is the unknown — a place where time might move again, where the waiting might end.
But stepping through means surrendering to whatever waits beyond.
I close my eyes, tasting the cold air heavy with ash and earth.
The shadows watch.
Time pauses.
And I step forward.