The Room That Read Him
The sky split.
Not with lightning, but with language—a soundless ripple of syllables that moved across the clouds like wind. Words the air itself seemed to be speaking, or maybe remembering.
He blinked, and the forest was gone.
Now, he stood at the edge of a hallway made of pages.
Not walls of paper—pages, all of them from books he hadn't written but somehow recognized.
Each one fluttered softly in place. Some were blank. Some repeated the same sentence.
"I didn't mean to forget."
Others were bleeding ink from the corners.
The hallway stretched forward into a single room.
So he walked.
The room at the end was perfectly round.
No windows. No corners.
The walls were mirrors.
But not mirrors.
They reflected versions of him.
Not in real-time.
Some were younger. Smiling. Others were afraid. One was screaming without sound.
Another sat calmly in a chair, reading a book.
The title:
You Will Forget This Story.
In the center of the room was a podium.
A file lay on it. Medical. Official.
Stamped: "CASE 63-REDUNDANT COGNITION // IDENTITY FAILURE."
He opened it.
Inside were photographs. Dozens. All blurry. All of him—or someone who looked like him. Standing in doorways. Hunched in mirrors. Sitting in empty classrooms. One was lying in bed, eyes open.
All dated the same day.
Today.
A screen on the wall lit up.
It began playing video footage.
A conversation.
Him, seated in a white room.
Across from him, the Girl in Red Shoes—but older now. Her voice deeper. Her hair streaked with soot.
"Do you remember what happened?" she asked.
"No," he said. "I was just trying to get home."
"You said that last time too."
"Was I lying?"
"You weren't ready."
"Ready for what?"
She leaned forward.
"To remember that this isn't your story."
He stumbled back.
The mirrors rippled.
The younger versions of him began to blur—their faces smearing like wet paint. One of them opened their mouth and pointed at the file in his hands.
"Don't read ahead," it whispered.
"You'll ruin the ending."
He turned and ran.
Back down the hallway.
The pages rearranged themselves as he passed.
Some now said:
"You are the lie."
Others:
"You died in Chapter 3."
One:
"Stop reading."
He reached the door he came in through.
It was gone.
Now, only a wall.
And a typewriter sitting in the middle of the floor.
The paper in it read:
"What's your name?"
The keys began to type on their own.
"I don't remember."
The machine paused.
Then typed:
"Try harder."