The question hung in the shimmering, silent air, feeling both sacrilegious and profoundly practical. Leo, standing at the precipice of a new reality, was governed by a need far older and more insistent than any sense of decorum for a mystical woodland.
His bathroom was back through the door, a few feet away. It featured a toilet that required a specific, jiggling ritual to flush properly, a floor that was sticky in one corner for reasons he'd given up trying to understand, and an air of quiet misery.
This place… it smelled clean. Alive.
"Sorry, glowing mushrooms," he mumbled, stepping fully out of his apartment.
The moss under his bare feet was surprisingly dense and cool, like stepping onto the plushest carpet imaginable. It gave slightly under his weight. He took three tentative steps forward, moving behind the trunk of a colossal, silver-barked tree. The sheer scale of it was dizzying; its base was wider than his entire apartment. He felt like a mouse seeking shelter behind a human leg.
A moment later, a profound sense of relief washed over him. The simple, human act was a stark contrast to the sheer alien wonder surrounding him. As the immediate pressure subsided, the gravity of his situation slammed back into him with the force of a physical blow.
He was in his thin, worn pajamas. It was cold, though not unpleasantly so. And he was standing in a place that shouldn't exist. A place that was, quite possibly, entirely in his head. Had that last ramen packet been… special? Did warehouse dust have hallucinogenic properties?
He zipped up his pants, his fingers fumbling. His eyes darted around, taking in the scene with a mind now slightly clearer. Strange, fern-like plants coiled in spirals, their fronds tipped with what looked like dewdrops of pure light. A small, six-legged creature with a carapace like polished jade skittered across a root nearby, pausing to twitch its feathery antennae at him before disappearing into the undergrowth.
Everything was quiet, but it was a living quiet—the opposite of the dead, oppressive silence of his empty apartment. This silence was full of potential, of unseen life.
It was too much.
With a jolt of panic, Leo spun around. The glowing rectangle of his bathroom doorway seemed a mile away, a beacon of squalid, familiar safety. He scrambled back, stumbling over a root. Moss and damp earth clung to his bare feet as he launched himself through the portal.
He didn't hesitate. He slammed the door shut, the wood groaning in protest. The click of the latch was the loudest sound he had ever heard.
He was back in his apartment. Back in the dark.
The golden light was gone. The smell of clean air and sweet pollen was replaced instantly by the familiar funk of damp plaster and old plumbing. He leaned his back against the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He slid down the wood until he was sitting on the cold linoleum, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The drip… drop… drip of the faucet was still there. Steady. Relentless. Sane.
He squeezed his eyes shut. "A dream," he wheezed. "It was a dream. Or a hallucination. Too much overtime. Not enough sleep."
He repeated it like a mantra, trying to force the logic into his brain. But his senses betrayed him. His feet were cold and damp, and when he looked down, he could see small flecks of emerald-green moss and dark soil clinging to his skin. He touched the tip of his finger to a speck. It was real. It smelled of earth.
He slowly, unsteadily, got to his feet. His reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink was a pale, wild-eyed stranger. Was this it? Was this the moment he finally lost it? A mind can only bend so far under the weight of poverty and exhaustion before it snaps. Maybe this was his snap.
For a long time, he just stood there, listening to the drip of the faucet and the frantic hum of the mini-fridge. He looked at the cracked linoleum. He looked at his ramen-pot-and-two-forks dish rack. He looked at the eviction notice he'd tucked behind the rusty magnet on the fridge door, hoping that not looking at it would make it disappear. This was his reality. A cramped room, a broken bank account, and the constant, gnawing pressure of just trying to exist.
And on the other side of that door?
Wonder. Terror. Impossibility.
But not despair. He couldn't remember feeling a single ounce of despair while standing in that forest.
He had to know. He couldn't spend the rest of his life wondering if he had a single, magnificent, waking dream, or if he was simply crazy. Either answer was better than not knowing.
His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob. The brass felt colder than before. His palm was sweaty. He hesitated, his knuckles white. This was it. If he opened it and saw his sad, grimy toilet, then he would call in sick tomorrow, go to the free clinic, and tell them he was seeing things. He would deal with it.
But if the forest was there…
Taking a deep, shaky breath, Leo turned the knob. He pulled the door open, slowly, just a crack at first.
A single, brilliant shard of golden light cut through the gloom of his apartment, bisecting his worn-out sneakers on the floor.
He opened the door wider.
The forest was still there. Unchanged. Waiting. The silent, colossal trees, the glowing flora, the soft, alien breeze. It hadn't been a dream.
He stood on the threshold, half in his world of debt and instant noodles, and half in a world of impossible beauty. The question that had dominated his life for years—How am I going to survive until next week?—was suddenly, forcefully, replaced by a new one.
What the hell do I do now?