The hallway smelled faintly of new paint and dust, as if the university had hurried to patch things up before students arrived. Adrian Holt dragged his suitcase across the scuffed linoleum floor, each wheel squeaking in protest with every turn. The corridor stretched on forever, lined with identical doors, each one hiding a stranger's future inside.
He found the number: 317. His new home.
For a moment, he stood staring at the brass digits screwed into the wood, as though the simple act of walking in would set off a chain reaction he couldn't reverse. A muffled laugh echoed somewhere down the hall — a burst of joy that belonged to someone else. Adrian slipped the key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and pushed the door open.
The dorm room was smaller than he'd imagined, but bright. Afternoon light spilled through a narrow window that overlooked the campus courtyard, where banners in the school's colors swayed lazily in the breeze. Two beds, two desks, two wardrobes. One side already claimed — a duffel bag thrown across the mattress, a pair of sneakers abandoned by the wall.
"Hey, you must be Holt," a voice said.
Adrian startled.
A tall guy with sandy hair stepped out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, foam clinging to his lips. He grinned like they'd been friends for years.
"Marcus Lane," he said around the toothbrush, extending a soapy hand. "Your new partner in crime, apparently."
Adrian hesitated, then shook it, feeling toothpaste slick against his palm. "Adrian," he said. "Holt."
Marcus nodded approvingly. "Good to meet you, Adrian Holt. Has a nice ring to it. Like a detective in some noir film."
Adrian smirked faintly and wheeled his suitcase to the unclaimed bed.
The room smelled faintly of detergent and something sharper — mint, probably Marcus's toothpaste. The stranger hummed to himself as he rinsed, spat, and wandered back out in a loose t-shirt, running a hand through damp hair.
"So where you from?" Marcus asked, flopping onto his bed without ceremony.
"North side," Adrian said. He tugged open the wardrobe and found it smaller than it looked. "About two hours by train."
"Close enough for home-cooked meals when you get sick of dining hall slop."
Adrian gave a half-smile. He liked Marcus's energy, though it pressed against his nerves like sunlight on a hangover.
They spent the next half-hour trading introductions — Marcus, an engineering student who played pickup basketball whenever he could; Adrian, undeclared for now, interested in literature, though he didn't say that out loud.
When Marcus finally pulled out his phone to text someone, Adrian let his gaze wander the room. It was plain, bare, impersonal. The kind of place that wouldn't remember him after he left. He sat on his bed, fingers brushing the thin blanket, and exhaled slowly.
It was fine. Everything was fine.
That evening, they ventured out together. Marcus insisted on exploring the campus — a sprawling mix of glassy modern buildings and ivy-strangled bricks. Students lounged on lawns, laughing in groups, passing soccer balls, strumming guitars. Adrian walked a step behind Marcus, listening more than talking.
"Here's the library," Marcus announced with mock grandeur. "Where dreams come to die. And over there's the cafeteria. Try the chicken nuggets — they're basically edible."
Adrian chuckled softly.
They looped through the student center, where flyers cluttered bulletin boards. Adrian paused at one: Photography Club – First Meeting Next Thursday. He tugged the corner of the paper, considering.
"You into that?" Marcus asked, glancing over.
"Sometimes," Adrian said.
Marcus grinned. "Great, you can take my graduation pictures. Save me the fee."
By the time they returned to the dorm, night had fallen. The courtyard buzzed with voices, music drifting faintly from an open window. Marcus stretched out on his bed, scrolling through his phone. Adrian unpacked in silence, folding clothes with mechanical precision.
It felt almost normal.
Adrian dreamed that night.
He was walking down a corridor much like the dorm hall, only longer, narrower, lit by flickering bulbs. His suitcase rattled behind him, but when he looked down, his hands were empty. Doors lined the walls — dozens, hundreds — all painted the same pale color. He reached for one. The brass number glinted: 317.
The door creaked open. Darkness spilled out.
Someone stood inside. A tall figure, face blurred, watching him.
Adrian tried to speak, but no sound left his throat.
The figure lifted a hand and whispered something he couldn't hear. The hallway lights snapped off, one by one, racing toward him. Adrian spun, but the corridor stretched into infinity.
He woke with his heart hammering.
The room was quiet, bathed in the bluish glow of dawn. Marcus snored softly on the other bed, one arm flung across his face.
Adrian sat up, pressing his palms into his eyes. Just a dream. Nothing more.
The next morning blurred with introductions — orientation speeches, campus tours, the endless shuffle of first-year confusion. Marcus thrived, chatting with strangers, collecting numbers. Adrian lingered at the edges, polite but detached.
By evening, his head ached. He returned to the dorm early, grateful for silence. The room was empty, Marcus off somewhere charming a crowd.
Adrian sat at his desk and opened his notebook. His pen hovered above the first blank page. For a moment, his mind felt hollow. He wrote a single line:
Day one. Room 317. Marcus Lane. Seems nice.
He paused, frowning. The name looked strange on the page, like handwriting that didn't belong to him. He tried again, beneath it:
Marcus Lake.
Adrian blinked. He could have sworn Marcus introduced himself that way.
He stared at the words, the ink sinking into paper fibers. Lane. Lake.
Which one had it been?
He rubbed at his temple, annoyed. Probably just tired.
Still, when Marcus returned later, Adrian listened closely as he greeted him.
"Evening, Holt," Marcus said cheerfully, tossing his jacket on the chair.
Adrian almost asked him to repeat his last name. But the words stuck in his throat.
Instead, he closed the notebook and forced a smile.