The Question That Echoed
He stepped toward her.
She didn't move.
Outside, the strange sunset hadn't dimmed. It remained fixed, like a painting that refused to age.
He clenched his hands.
"Where are we?"
No answer.
He raised his voice, just a little.
"Where are we?"
Her eyes shifted to meet his, steady and sad.
"You always ask that."
He blinked.
"Then why don't I remember?"
She turned slightly, as if to walk away, but didn't.
"You're not supposed to remember everything," she said.
"That's the problem."
He took a breath, stepping between her and the window.
He blocked the light, but she didn't seem to notice.
He searched her expression for some kind of resistance—but she wasn't hiding the truth from him.
It was more like...
She was afraid he'd find it.
"You keep talking like this has all happened before," he said. "But I don't remember it. I don't remember anything. So I'm asking again."
He looked around the room.
At the stillness.
At the dust that never settled.
At the mirror covered by a cloth.
"Where are we?"
She hesitated.
Then spoke:
"Somewhere between remembering... and being remembered."
He stared at her.
"That doesn't mean anything."
"I know."
The floor creaked faintly beneath them, even though neither of them moved.
She looked down at her feet, like listening to the house itself breathe.
Then looked back at him.
Her voice quieted.
"This place only holds what you're willing to see."
He shook his head.
"No. That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give."
He turned toward the door.
Then froze.
The handle was missing.
It had been there a moment ago.
Now it was smooth wood.
Flat.
Blank.
He turned back to her, heart quickening.
"What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," she said, stepping backward. "You asked too loudly."
The air dimmed.
Not the light—just... the sense of light.
Everything felt a shade more distant.
Like he was being slowly pushed outside of his own story.
She looked toward the ceiling, then back to him.
"It's listening now."
He whispered, "What is?"
But she only stepped back again.
And vanished.
Alone, in a room with no handle, no reflection, no sun that moved…
He stood still.
And whispered once more:
"Where am I?"
No answer.
But something behind the wall moved.