The door opened.
Not into darkness.
Not into recursion.
Not into mirrors.
But into air.
Cold. Clean. Real.
A hallway I recognized—not from dreams or memories, but from before.
From the time I used to walk with groceries in my arms and songs in my head. From a time when names were just names, not spells.
---
I took one step.
The ground held.
No ripple. No cracking tile. No spiral blooming beneath my foot.
Just floor.
Worn. Unimpressive. Human.
---
Behind me, Apartment 4B whispered its final breath.
Not a sound.
Not a scream.
Just a pressure.
Like something deflating.
When I looked back…
The door was gone.
---
No plaque.
No number.
Just blank wall where 4B had once been.
Like the building had never remembered it at all.
And in a way… it hadn't.
Because I had been the Room.
Or at least… the part of it that wanted to be remembered.
---
I stepped into the stairwell.
The air didn't hum.
The lights didn't flicker.
The mirror at the landing?
Gone.
Replaced by a cheap bulletin board with takeout menus and torn flyers.
One read:
> LOST DOG – Answers to "Elijah."
I tore it down.
Folded it.
Put it in my pocket.
Not out of fear.
Out of respect.
---
The lobby was dead quiet.
The front doors stood open.
Glass clear.
No blood smeared across them.
No shadow waiting beyond.
Just wind.
And early morning light.
---
I stepped outside.
And the world met me like an old friend.
Skyscrapers.
Sirens.
The stink of rain and gasoline.
The chaos of the real.
I looked at my reflection in a parked car window.
And for the first time in forever—
It bled when I did.
---
I smiled.
And it smiled back.
Perfectly.
No delay.
No cracks.
No spiral.
---
I didn't know where to go next.
There were no instructions.
No missions.
No next phase.
Just… choice.
And isn't that what the Room had taken from all of us?
Choice.
---
A phone rang nearby.
Not mine.
A payphone.
Old. Graffitied.
Ringing.
I picked it up.
Didn't say anything.
Just listened.
And from the other end—
> "You did it."
Clara's voice.
Calm. Warm.
> "You unhooked it from memory."
> "You became the end."
---
> "Are you real?" I asked.
> "As much as you are."
> "Is it over?"
She paused.
Then:
> "No."
> "But you're out."
> "And that means something else can begin."
Click.
Dial tone.
---
I walked.
Block after block.
Past people who didn't know me.
Past lives that never paused for mine.
And for the first time…
That didn't hurt.
It relieved.
Because now I got to choose who to become.
Not who the Room needed me to be.
Not who the spiral had pre-written.
Just—
Ian.
---
I found a bench in the park.
Sat.
Watched a kid chase pigeons.
Watched a woman cry quietly into her coffee.
Watched a man propose and get rejected, then laugh anyway.
All of it so real.
So flawed.
So alive.
---
I reached into my coat pocket.
The journal wasn't there.
Of course it wasn't.
But in its place—
A seed.
Black.
Smooth.
Warm to the touch.
And inscribed, in the smallest letters imaginable:
> Remember. Gently.
---
I dropped it in the grass.
Not out of fear.
Out of faith.
If it grows, let it grow in open air.
Not in a room of reflections and spirals.
---
The wind picked up.
Carried the last scent of burning ink away.
And I whispered:
> "Goodbye."
---
Somewhere far behind me,
In a place that no longer exists,
The Room exhaled.
---
THE END.