Chasing a Stretching Hallway to a Grocery Store

Chasing a Stretching Hallway to a Grocery Store

I woke up late for work and rushed out the door, only to realize I was still in my pajamas. I sprinted down the hallway, but the hallway kept stretching, turning into the grocery store I pass on my way to the office. The cash registers were all empty, and a clerk—who looked exactly like my old high school math teacher—handed me a receipt that said "Missing: 2‑year‑old notebook, last seen in classroom 12B." I tried to ask what it meant, but the clerk just smiled and said, "You’ll find it where you left it." I ran to the office building, but the lobby was a maze of doors that all opened onto the same empty conference room. My boss was there, looking worried, holding a file labeled "Case 47: The Vanished Report." He asked me if I had seen the report; I swore I had, but I couldn't remember where I put it. Suddenly the fire alarm blared, the lights flickered, and I woke up in my kitchen, heart pounding, still half‑dressed.