You were not lost.
You were being watched.
The hallway was narrower than you remembered. Or maybe you were wider. Hard to tell in dim light.
You reached for the switch, and your hand met an empty wall. Not the wrong wall. Just⦠wall. The kind that absorbs sound. The kind that feels older than paint.
It is strange how quickly the body knows before the mind does.
The air was damp. Not cold. Not warm. Just occupied.
You told yourself you must have miscounted the steps. You must have turned too early. You must have forgotten where the switch lives.
You did not forget.
It moved.
There are places that rearrange themselves when no one is looking. Corners that lean closer. Doors that practice closing quietly. Rooms that are patient.
Very patient.
You were not lost.
Lost implies absence of direction.
This was something else.
You stood still long enough to hear it β not a sound exactly, more a pressure. Like the pause before someone says your name.
You understood then.
The light was never meant to help you see.
It was meant to help something see you.
