I thought I understood the building.
I thought I had mapped its every hallway, every staircase, every door.
I was wrong.
It started with a soft creak, barely audible, like the building itself sighing. I had returned to the hall I explored the night before, curious if anything had changed. Curiosity, I realized, had become a habit I could not shake.
The hallway stretched before me—longer than it had ever been. I counted the doors along the walls. Twice as many. The paint was fresh in some places where I knew it had been peeling. Shadows curled along the edges of the ceiling, moving independently of the lights.
I stepped forward cautiously, testing the floorboards. They didn't creak where I expected. Some tiles seemed softer, bending slightly under my weight, then snapping back as if nothing had happened.
And then I saw it: a door that had never been there before.
It was simple, wooden, nothing remarkable… yet it hummed softly, a vibration that I felt in my chest. My hand hovered over the handle. I didn't know if I should open it. Part of me feared what might be inside. Another part… couldn't resist.
The moment I turned the knob, the hallway behind me shifted.
I froze.
The walls rippled like water. The floor tilted slightly, then righted itself. Shadows twisted and stretched, forming patterns I couldn't identify. The door swung open into a room that should have been impossible.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes that seemed older than time itself. Dust floated in the air, but the pages of the books flickered as if alive, letters rearranging themselves just slightly when I glanced away.
A desk stood in the center, a single candle burning without melting, its flame flickering in colors I didn't know names for. A faint hum resonated from the candle, vibrating in the floorboards beneath my feet.
I reached out, touching one of the books. The letters shimmered beneath my fingers, and I felt a warmth, almost like the building was acknowledging my presence.
Then I noticed the shadows.
They didn't belong to anything in the room. They moved independently, curling around the shelves, stretching along the ceiling, flicking toward me before recoiling. It wasn't threatening. It was curious. Observing. Testing me.
A sudden whisper echoed, barely audible:
"Do you understand?"
I spun around. Nothing. The door was still behind me, but the hallway outside had vanished. In its place was a wall I hadn't seen before, adorned with strange symbols that glowed faintly. My chest tightened. This was no longer a simple anomaly. I was inside the building's magic itself.
I tried to leave the room. The door wouldn't budge. I pushed, pulled, and even tried to imagine it opening—but nothing worked. My pulse quickened.
And then I realized something: the room wasn't static. It was alive. Every object, every shadow, every flicker of light shifted depending on where I stood, what I looked at, what I felt. The building itself was experimenting with me, teaching me rules I didn't yet understand.
I stayed there until dawn, pacing, observing, testing small movements. Every glance, every turn, every step revealed something new. The books whispered faintly as I passed, the candle flame danced in impossible patterns, and the shadows watched, ever present, ever patient.
When I finally fell asleep on the floor, exhausted, the room seemed to fold in on itself. I woke later, not knowing how much time had passed. I stepped out—and the hallway had returned to its familiar shape.
Everything seemed normal… except that the door, the candle, the shadows—they had left traces in my mind. Something about them lingered, like an imprint I could not shake.
I understood one thing: the anomalies were not random. They had a purpose. They were alive. They were waiting for someone to notice, to learn, to understand. And I was that someone.
I had crossed a threshold. And there was no turning back.