At The End of The Hallway
The hallway smelled like soil.
The kind that clings to skin after digging.
He walked slowly, one hand grazing the wallpaper. It felt dry. Thin. Like paper pretending to be wall.
The photo he held had gone blank.
He dropped it.
At the end of the hall was a doorway.
Not a door.
Just the empty frame.
Beyond it: soft light.
Flickering. Like sunlight through smoke.
He stepped through.
The room was small.
Empty.
Except for her.
The girl stood by the window, her back to him. Her hair hung past her shoulders. She was barefoot, one hand pressed against the glass.
Her dress was white.
And only slightly singed at the edges.
The red shoes were gone.
He didn't speak right away.
Neither did she.
He watched her for a moment, unsure what he was supposed to feel. There was no memory pulling at him. No familiarity rising to meet her.
Only a quiet pressure in the chest.
Like something wanted to be remembered.
"You live here?" he asked softly.
She didn't turn.
"Not really."
"But you're… from here?"
She tilted her head slightly. "I'm just visiting."
He stepped closer.
"You looked familiar."
She turned then.
Smiled gently.
"You don't."
That landed sharper than it should've.
Not cruel.
Just… honest.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Her smile didn't fade.
"I don't have one."
He blinked. "Why not?"
"Maybe it was taken." She turned back to the window. "Maybe I left it behind."
The silence between them was soft.
Not uncomfortable.
Just fragile.
"I don't know who I am," he said quietly.
"I know," she replied.
"But I thought… maybe you'd remember me."
This time she didn't answer.
Outside the window, the light flickered again—shifting color. Green, then gold, then gray.
He looked down at her feet.
Bare.
Dirty.
Small bruises across her ankles.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
She tilted her head again.
"Are you?"
He looked away.
Suddenly unsure if he was real.
Or just a memory she was imagining.