The Place Between
She walked barefoot down the hallway, quiet as breath.
He followed.
The carpet beneath their feet shifted color the farther they went—first beige, then olive, then dark red. He didn't know if the hallway was changing or if his eyes were.
The walls were different now, too. Less like a house, more like something built to remember a house. The wallpaper peeled at the corners, revealing words beneath it—words written directly on the wood.
He tried to read them, but they faded before his eyes could focus.
She didn't look back.
But he knew she wanted him to follow.
And he did.
After several turns, the hallway opened into a stairwell.
The kind found in old schools or hospitals—concrete steps, metal rail, a single light overhead flickering in a slow rhythm.
She took the steps two at a time.
He followed more carefully.
His footsteps made no sound.
"Where are we?" he asked.
She didn't answer at first.
Then, without turning:
"Somewhere between what happened and what you told yourself."
They reached a landing.
There was a window here, but the glass was fogged.
Beyond it: trees. A swing set. A small patch of dirt.
Familiar, but distant.
He touched the window with his fingertips.
His reflection stared back.
But her reflection wasn't there.
He turned to ask—
But she was already halfway down the next flight of stairs.
He followed again.
"Is this real?" he asked. "Are you?"
"I'm not lying to you," she said softly.
"But that's not the same as telling the truth."
The stairs ended at a metal door.
No handle. No keyhole.
Just a narrow horizontal slot, like the kind you'd see on a confession booth.
She stood in front of it.
Waited.
After a moment, she turned to him and asked:
"Do you have the key?"
He blinked. "What key?"
She tilted her head again. Her smile was kind, but hollow.
"Then we're not done remembering."
The hallway behind them was gone.
Only the door remained.
And the question:
What were they locked out of?
Or worse—
What were they locked in?