The red door felt wrong the moment Mira and Alex stepped toward it—wrong in a way that prickled the skin, wrong in a way that made the air thicken like syrup. It wasn't just a color or an object. It was an invitation. A memory. A warning. She didn't know how she knew that, but the knowledge was there, deep in her bones, bubbling up like something old and unburied.
Alex squeezed her hand once more before letting go, only long enough to reach for the small flashlight clipped to his belt. "We don't go in blind," he muttered, flicking it on.
The beam cut through the dim aisle, landing on the peeling red paint. The door seemed older than the archive itself—older than any building she'd ever seen. The wood was warped, edges blackened as if touched by fire long ago. When the light swept across the handle, she felt a pressure behind her eyes, a dull ache blooming at her temples.
"Mira? You okay?"
Alex's voice came out low, concerned.
"Yeah," she lied. "Just… dizzy."
He studied her face. "If this feels wrong—"
"It does," she whispered.
He blinked, thrown. "Then maybe we shouldn't—"
"But it feels wrong in a way I… recognize." Her voice cracked, surprising even herself.
Alex looked from her to the door again. "Recognize? From what?"
She shook her head helplessly. "I don't know."
But she did.
Somewhere beneath the panic and the fear, beneath the pounding pulse in her throat, there was something else.
A pull.
A certainty.
A whisper that grew louder the closer she stepped.
Come back.
Come back.
Come back.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached out and touched the doorframe.
Her breath caught. The wood was cold—unnaturally cold—but her palm burned like she'd pressed it against a stove. She yanked her hand back with a gasp.
"Mira!" Alex grabbed her wrist, inspecting her palm. "You're burned—how is that possible? The wood is freezing."
She stared at her skin, which wasn't red or blistered. It looked normal.
But she felt the burn.
"I'm fine," she insisted, though her voice didn't match the words. "Alex… I think I've touched this before."
His eyes widened slowly. "In… another life?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
A low hum vibrated through the air. The door creaked again, pushing itself open another inch.
Alex's grip on her hand tightened. "Stay behind me."
"No," she said, surprising him. "We go together."
He hesitated—then nodded, shifting to walk beside her instead of in front.
They stepped through the doorway.
The moment her foot crossed the threshold, everything changed.
The world blinked.
One heartbeat they were in the archive.
The next heartbeat—they weren't.
They stood in a long, narrow corridor stretching into a darkness so absolute it looked like a void swallowing the walls. The floor didn't creak. It didn't vibrate. It didn't respond to their footsteps at all.
It felt like walking on air.
Alex lifted the flashlight. The beam sliced through the dark and landed on rows of… doors. Hundreds of them. Each door was identical—white, unmarked, smooth. Lining both sides of the corridor like a house of infinite rooms.
"What the hell is this place?" Alex whispered.
Mira didn't know.
But her pulse recognized it.
Her skin recognized it.
Her soul recognized it.
This corridor lived in her nightmares.
This corridor lived in the space between her memories.
"I've been here before," she whispered.
Alex froze. "What?"
She touched one of the doors, fingertips trembling. "Not in this life. But… I remember running down this hallway. I remember the sound of footsteps behind me. And I remember choosing the wrong door."
"What happened when you chose wrong?"
Mira closed her eyes. A flash of something ripped through her mind.
A scream.
A dark figure.
Hands grasping her from behind.
The taste of metal and fear.
Her eyes snapped open. "I died."
Alex stepped close, his hands gripping her shoulders. "Hey—look at me. You're here now. You're okay."
She wasn't okay.
None of this was okay.
But his voice grounded her enough to breathe.
The flashlight flickered.
Not its bulb.
The light itself flickered—shuddering like something was interfering with reality.
"Alex…" She pointed.
The far end of the corridor began to ripple. Like heat waves rising from asphalt. Like air being forced to make room for something impossible.
Then—
A shape appeared.
Tall.
Thin.
Watching.
The same figure from the archive.
Alex cursed under his breath. "Not again."
The figure didn't move. Didn't walk. It simply was—and Mira felt its attention like weight pressing her to the ground.
It didn't speak aloud.
But she felt its voice sliding into her mind, soft and familiar.
You left too soon.
You always leave too soon.
Mira stumbled back, grabbing Alex's arm. "We need to move. Now."
"Which way?"
"Anywhere he isn't."
They sprinted down the corridor, Mira's breath ragged as she ran. The doors blurred by, each identical, unmarked, unwelcoming. Her footsteps didn't echo. The corridor swallowed sound entirely.
Behind them, the figure remained still.
But the corridor began to shift.
Twist.
Bend.
Walls stretching unnaturally.
Doors sliding past like a moving train.
The ceiling lowering.
The floor tilting.
"Mira—this place is warping!" Alex shouted, grabbing her hand again to keep her upright.
Then something slammed into her mind like a fist.
A memory.
Strong.
Vivid.
Painful.
She was wearing a different body.
Different clothes.
Running through the same corridor with the same terror burning her lungs.
Her hair shorter.
Her steps lighter.
A scream ripping through her throat as the figure behind her reached—
The memory broke.
"Mira!" Alex's voice yanked her back as he pulled her out of the path of a door that swung open on its own, its inside pitch-black.
"That wasn't there," he gasped.
"It's trying to separate us," she panted.
Alex pulled her closer, their shoulders touching. "Then we don't let it."
They kept running—until something made Mira skid to a halt.
A door.
One door among thousands.
Different.
Black instead of white.
On its center, carved deep into the wood:
MIRA
Her breath froze in her chest.
Alex grabbed her arm. "Don't—"
"I know this door," she whispered.
"No, Mira, this is exactly what it wants."
She reached out.
Her palm hovered over the carved letters.
Her name.
Her past.
Her future.
Her death.
The figure's voice whispered again, sliding through her mind like smoke—
You left this behind.
Come back.
Finish what you began.
The handle turned under her fingers.
The moment the door cracked open, light exploded outward, blinding and warm. The corridor shook violently. Doors slammed open and shut. The hum became a roar.
Alex pulled her back, shouting her name—but she wasn't here anymore.
She fell into the room.
And the door slammed shut behind her.
"MIRA!"
Alex's voice was muffled behind the wood—panicked, desperate—but she couldn't open the door. Her hands pressed against it, shaking, but it didn't budge.
Her breath hitched.
She turned.
The room was a perfect square, walls smooth and white. No windows. No furniture. Nothing but a single object in the center:
A mirror.
Tall.
Antique.
Its wooden frame carved with symbols so old she couldn't recognize them.
Her own reflection stared back at her.
Except—
It wasn't her.
The woman in the mirror had her face. But her eyes were older—centuries older. Her hair was shorter. Her expression harder. Wiser. A version of Mira who had lived through endings she didn't remember.
Her reflection stepped forward even though Mira didn't move.
Mira's breath froze.
Her hands trembled at her sides.
"Who…" she whispered, voice cracking. "Who are you?"
Her reflection smiled softly.
"I am who you were.
And who you will be."
Mira stumbled back. "No—no, that's impossible—"
"You have lived many endings."
The reflection pressed a palm against the glass from the other side.
"This time, do not choose wrong."
"Wrong?" Mira whispered. "Choose what?"
The reflection's eyes flicked toward the door.
"Him."
Her heart stuttered. "Alex?"
The reflection shook her head slowly.
"The other one."
Mira's stomach dropped.
"You mean the man following me?"
"He is not following you."
A pause.
"He is bound to you. Across every life."
Mira's pulse roared in her ears.
"No," she whispered. "I don't want that."
Her reflection's expression softened, almost pitying.
"Wanting has nothing to do with it."
The mirror began to ripple. The figure in the reflection blurred, then sharpened again—closer this time.
Behind the glass now stood the man in the mahogany coat.
Her breath fractured.
He looked… devastated.
Like someone who had watched her die a thousand times.
His voice echoed through the room, soft and gentle in a way that terrified her more than the shadow he cast.
"You came back to me."
She stumbled farther away.
"No—I came to figure out how to stop this."
He reached his hand toward the glass.
"You stopped us before.
You chose endings.
But you don't have to run from me in this life."
Her skin crawled.
He wasn't asking.
He was stating a fact he believed was destiny.
"I don't know you," she whispered.
His eyes softened.
"No.
But you did.
And part of you always does."
The mirror pulsed with light.
Outside the room, Alex's voice shouted her name, banging against the door.
"MIRA! MIRA, OPEN IT—PLEASE!"
Her heart cracked at the desperation in his tone.
The man in the mirror tilted his head.
"He cannot follow you where I am.
He never could."
She felt sick.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
The mirror flickered.
Her reflection—older, wiser—returned.
She pressed her palm against the glass again.
"Choose, Mira."
The mirror split down the middle.
Two paths opened in the glass:
One path reflected Alex—banging on the door, fighting to reach her.
The other path reflected the man—waiting with patient certainty.
Her reflection's voice trembled.
"Your past or your present.
Your fate or your freedom.
But not both."
Her throat closed.
"What happens if I choose wrong?" she whispered.
Her reflection smiled sadly.
"You already know."
The light intensified, swallowing the walls. The room rumbled. The mirror warped.
"MIRA!" Alex screamed outside.
The man whispered inside.
"Come back to me."
Her reflection murmured:
"Choose."
And the world split open in front of her.