When I woke up, the ceiling had changed its mind.
Yesterday it was flat and white; today it had veins—soft, pulsing ones—that twitched when I blinked too slowly. I decided not to look up anymore.
There was a note on the desk in my handwriting:
> "Do not open the third door again."
> That would've been helpful if I knew how many doors I owned.
I counted.
One behind me, one to my left, one inside the mirror. The mirror door kept pretending to be shy until I stared at it too long—then it smiled.
The walls whispered in the tone of a bored therapist:
> "You're improving, you know. You almost remember your own name."
> I didn't want to improve; improvement meant remembering. Remembering meant the noise.
I checked the clock. It wasn't ticking; it was *breathing.*
Each exhale pushed time backward a little, so the morning never arrived—just an endless pre-morning hum, the kind of light that never decides to commit.
Someone knocked.
The sound came from inside my chest first, then the door echoed it out loud, like a translation.
When I opened it, the hallway was lined with copies of me, each slightly delayed—like bad internet.
They all asked at once:
> "Are we the original?"
I said yes. We all said yes. The echo made it sound like prayer.
When I tried to leave, the note on the desk had changed:
> "Good. Now don't come back."
So I didn't.
But the room followed anyway.