Sunlight now poured in through tall windows into the hallway, golden and gentle, warming the polished floorboards beneath his feet. Dust floated lazily in the air, each mote twirling as if in no rush to settle. The scent of lemon cleaner, or maybe just fresh air, wafted past, clean and oddly nostalgic.
It reminded him of the old libraries. Clean. Familiar.
'Right', he muttered shakily, adjusting his coat, 'just an ordinary house.'
He stepped forward, his prints disturbing the thin film of dust that lay on the floor. Ahead, a living room opened up, modest in its decoration. A faded blue armchair sat in front of the fireplace. On the table beside it, a white ceramic mug sat, steam slowly rising out of it. It was still warm.
Elias' brow furrowed, but only faintly. He moved on.
In the study, the air felt cooler but way more dusty. Books lined the shelves, classics, mostly, with a few obscure titles mixed in. Beside a neatly stacked pile of journals, an old globe spun lazily on its axis. The notebook atop the desk was blank, its pen perfectly parallel to its spine.
Elias leaned over the desk, eyes narrowing slightly.
Was it strange that the pen hadn't rolled even a little?
He dismissed the thought.
The kitchen was next, sunlight touched every surface. A kettle sat cooling on the stove, its metal belly humming softly. On the counter, half a lemon glistened beside a knife. The clean smell in the air intensified here, almost too sweet now.
The clock above the sink ticked, the kind of tick that faded into the background,…. Until it didn't. He stared at it for a moment.
Tik-tok, tik-tok, tik-tok, t…
It stuttered,
T….ck
Tick.
He turned away, refusing to believe it was anything worth paying attention to.
The hallway outside stretched longer than he remembered. That thought came and went in the blink of an eye. As he walked, framed photographs caught his eye, happy faces, a family. A mother holding a child, a man laughing happily. Elias didn't recognize them. He didn't need to. They were ordinary.
One frame hung slightly askew so he reached out, and adjusted it carefully.
A breeze caught the curtain by the staircase, causing it to flutter gently.
Elias walked past the closed windows to the end of the hall where an unremarkable door stood. Plain wood, nothing unique. It might have been there all along.
Slowly, he reached out, his hand aiming for the brass handle. But right before he touched it, he paused.
Something didn't add up.
Elias stood still, hand hovering just inches from the brass handle. The air felt a little heavier now. Not suffocating, just… dense. The kind of silence that had weight.
He let his hand drop.
He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the hallway he had just walked through. Nothing had changed, visibly. The sunlight was still warm. The curtain still swayed. The family photographs still smiled. But something in his chest tightened anyway.
His mind was screaming.
Something was wrong.
He took a slow step back, then another. The door in front of him remained exactly where it was, plain and unmoving. He turned away from it completely.
Maybe it was nothing.
He decided to walk the hall again. This time, he chose to count his steps. He walked, counting his steps. Fifteen. Then he turned back and walked the same path again.
Sixteen.
His brow knit slightly. That wasn't right. He tried it again, taking short, measured steps this time. Seventeen.
He stopped and closed his eyes, trying to calm the thoughts already beginning to swirl in his mind.
His training told him to catalog everything. Stay calm. Focus on small, verifiable details.
That's how he worked through confusion, through facts.
He looked again at the photographs. Same smiling mother. Same laughing man. Same child holding a stuffed rabbit. Only now, the photo he had adjusted earlier? It was crooked again.
He moved closer, slower this time, like approaching a wild animal. He hadn't heard it fall. Hadn't felt a vibration. The nail in the wall seemed secure. He reached up and straightened the frame again, pressing his fingers firmly along the top edge.
Then he took a step back.
Still straight.
He turned away and took three steps.
Then stopped.
Turned around again.
Crooked.
His mouth opened slightly. Not in shock, more in disbelief. He stared at the frame for a long moment, then reached for it again. But this time, he stopped himself. He let it hang there, just off-center. Watching.
He continued on, deeper into the house.
When he passed the kitchen again, the lemon was gone. The knife still sat there, still glinting in the light, but the lemon had vanished. He stepped into the room fully now, eyes scanning the countertops. No trace.
He opened a cupboard. It was empty. Tried another. Also empty.
He turned toward the table in the center of the room, and there it was.
The lemon.
This time, it was whole again. Sitting upright in the middle of the table like it had always been there.
Elias stared at it, unsure whether to be afraid or annoyed.
"That's not possible," he said quietly.
He stepped closer. Reached out. Touched the lemon. Still cool. Slightly soft.
He picked it up, turned it in his hand. It looked freshly picked. Not the one from earlier. Not cut. Not drying out. A new one? The same one?
He placed it back down.
He opened the fridge.
Empty.
He walked back to the hallway.
Fifteen steps.
Sixteen again.
He turned into the study. The globe wasn't spinning anymore. It sat still, pointing toward the South Pole. A thin layer of dust had gathered on the desk now—he wiped a line through it with his finger. The notebook from before was closed, pen gone.
He opened the cover.
Blank.
Page one-blank.
Two-blank.
Third page-
A note. In his handwriting.
"The hallway is longer than it should be."
His breath caught in his throat. He didn't remember writing that. Didn't remember opening the notebook, or touching the pen. But the words were undeniably his. Same penmanship. Same spacing.
He closed the notebook, put it in his pocket and backed out of the study.
This time, he walked faster.
The hallway looked the same, but the air felt different. Thicker again. Less like dust now. More like heat without warmth. He passed the photos again. The same ones, but he could tell one was missing now.
The man laughing with his arm around the woman,…he was gone.
Only a faint rectangle remained, slightly cleaner than the rest of the wall. As if the photo had been there, and had been removed just moments before.
Elias touched the space lightly.
Still warm.
He rubbed his fingers together. His skin tingled, goosebumps rising.
He walked back to the living room. The mug was still there, but now it sat on the floor instead of the table. The chair had turned slightly, angled more toward the hallway.
He crouched down beside the mug.
No steam.
He reached out and touched it.
Still warm.
He straightened slowly. His throat was dry.
His photographic memory, once a tool he trusted more than his own mirror, was starting to scream.
None of this matched.
The layout. The details. The time. Something was changing. Or worse, everything was changing.
He pulled out the notebook. Flipped through it. Wrote one sentence down:
"Count the hallway steps again."
He tore the page out, folded it, and placed it on the table.
Then he walked to the end of the hall.
Plain wooden door.
He didn't open it again this time.
He turned around. Walked back.
Fifteen steps.
The note was gone.
In its place was a lemon.
Perfectly halved.
Glowing in the sunlight.