I know this hallway better than my own heartbeat—thirty-seven steps from the elevator to my office door. I’ve counted them a thousand times.
The footsteps behind me started at step fifteen. Heavy and deliberate, though not unusual—hundreds work here—but the rhythm is unsettling.
Twenty steps. I glance back. A man in a grey suit, maybe forty feet behind. His pace matches mine.
Twenty-five steps. I quicken. So does he.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting their familiar harsh glow. The motivational posters, the water cooler, the bulletin board—all exactly where they should be. I clutch my presentation folder tighter, my white gloves damp against the leather of my handbag. I should have reached my door by now.
Thirty steps. Forty. Fifty.
The corridor keeps going. The same beige carpet, same white walls, the same everything—just more of it. Always more.
I break into a run. Behind me, his footsteps hasten to match. His strides bring him closer; mine should take me forward, but don’t.
This hallway—I know it better than my own reflection—feels wrong.
His breathing is so close now I can feel it on my neck, but when I spin around—
The corridor is empty.
He’s somehow beside me now, reaching for my folder. I can’t resist, as his fingers close around it effortlessly. He steps past me to my office door—the door that shouldn’t be there yet, but is.
It opens at his touch.
Inside, I hear the familiar voices of colleagues, their warm greetings and their morning laughter. “Right on time,” someone says. “Ready for the quarterly presentation?”
He speaks, voice confident and clear, delivering my ideas, my words, my work.
I reach for the handle. My hand passes through it like wind scattering smoke.
I try to shout, to call out, to warn them. Nothing. I hammer at the door with my fists, scream without sound, and the silence holds me like glass.
I know this hallway better than my own heartbeat—thirty-seven steps from the elevator to my office door. I’ve counted them a million times.
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