Yesterday Nowhere
He stared at the door for a while.
The metal was worn. Cold. Smooth around the edges, like it had been touched too many times by too many hands, all waiting for permission to enter.
He turned to the girl.
"Where's the key?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then, simply:
"You had it."
He opened his mouth to argue—but stopped.
Had he?
He tried to picture it.A key. In his pocket. In his hand.What had it looked like?
No image came.
No memory.
Just the feeling of having once held something important.
Like the echo of warmth after letting go.
He checked his pockets.
Empty.
He checked his sleeves, his shoes, his thoughts.
Nothing.
"I don't remember," he said.
She looked at him, quiet. Not judging. Not helping.
"What did I do yesterday?"
The question slipped out before he even knew he was thinking it.
He stared at the floor.
It didn't have an answer.
He tried again.
Yesterday.
Where had he woken up?
Had he eaten? Spoken to anyone?
Had he been here the whole time?
Was yesterday… real?
He blinked.
Time didn't move.
"I don't remember yesterday," he said again, slower this time.
Then again, quieter:
"I don't think there was one."
The girl stepped toward the door and placed her hand on the slot.
"It's not locked," she said.
He frowned. "Then why won't it open?"
She glanced at him.
"Because you haven't told yourself what's on the other side."
He stared at the door, but the longer he looked, the less it looked like a door.
It looked like a page waiting to be turned.
Or a grave waiting to be dug up.
Or both.