The sound came again.
Faint.
Like fabric being dragged slowly across wood.
Or breathing through a locked door.
He stared at the wall.
It looked solid. Pale. Forgettable.
But now that he was listening…it was hollow.
He stepped forward and placed his hand flat against it.
Warm.
Not room temperature—body warm.
It pulsed beneath his palm.
Once.
Then again.
Like something was alive beneath it.
He didn't think.
Didn't speak.
He just pressed harder.
And the wall gave way.
Not with a crack or a collapse.
It simply folded inward, like it had been waiting for someone to ask nicely.
Behind it was a narrow stairwell.
Stone. Not wood. Carved roughly, like it had been dug with hands.
No lights. Just a dull glow pulsing from beneath the steps.
He hesitated at the threshold.
The air was different here.
Still.
Thick.
It smelled like something old.
And buried.
He stepped inside.
The wall behind him closed soundlessly.
The staircase turned as it descended, spiraling tight like the inside of a shell.
The deeper he went, the harder it became to name things.
Words thinned in his mind.
Was this a stairwell?
Or just a path with rules?
Was this air?
Or memory?
Was he breathing?
Or just remembering what it felt like?
At the bottom was a corridor.
No doors.
Just a long tunnel with walls covered in scratched writing.
He leaned closer.
All of it was in his own handwriting.
Some lines were fragmented thoughts:
"Don't let her lie."
"I was buried here."
"Who wrote this if I didn't exist?"
Other lines repeated:
"Not real not real not real not real—"
But one stood out above the rest, larger than the others:
"YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO REMEMBER THIS."
His breath caught.
Something flickered at the far end of the tunnel.
Not light.
Movement.
He took a step forward.
And the words on the wall behind him began to blur.
Fading into nonsense.
The deeper he went, the more they forgot themselves.
And so did he.