Alya jerked awake, gasping. Her uniform clung damp to her skin, her head throbbing with the remnants of fear. She sat upright, blinking at the sight of her tiny apartment, its peeling walls and dusty curtains welcoming her back to reality.
The sunlight streaming through the window told her it was morning. She fumbled for her phone. 07:03 AM.
She pressed a trembling hand against her face. It was a dream… wasn't it?
The factory. The whispers. The impossible corridors. It had all felt so real, every sound, every flicker of breath against her neck. Alya shivered. She whispered aloud, as if to convince herself:
"It was just a dream."
Her body, drained and heavy, begged for rest. She peeled herself out of her uniform, tossed it carelessly over the chair, and crawled into bed. The mattress felt like a sanctuary, and within moments, exhaustion pulled her under again—this time into dreamless sleep.
---
The day passed quietly. No shadows, no whispers, just the humdrum rhythm of life. At ten, Alya slipped into her sandals and walked to the corner 7-Eleven, the morning sun bright and ordinary above her.
She grabbed a packet of Maggi Kari, her comfort food, along with a bottle of water. The cashier greeted her with a sleepy smile, and Alya smiled back, almost forgetting the nightmare. Almost.
Back home, she cooked the noodles, savoring the warm, spicy broth. Each bite grounded her, reminding her she was safe, awake, alive. The more she ate, the more the dread faded—like mist under the sun.
By noon, she sat by the window, lazily scrolling her phone, waiting for evening. Waiting for the moment she would have to pull her uniform back on and return to the factory.
The thought made her chest tighten.
She told herself she would treat tonight like any other. The whispers, the corridors—they were nothing but tricks of her dreaming mind. But deep down, a question gnawed at her:
If it was only a dream… why was her radio still lying on the floor of her room, cracked, exactly where she dropped it?