Endless hallway sprint to a latte key in the subway

Endless hallway sprint to a latte key in the subway

I was late for work, sprinting down the hallway of my apartment building, but the hallway kept stretching forever. I finally burst out the front door, only to find the street was a mix of my usual downtown block and the subway platform I used to take in college. The coffee shop I always stop at was there, but the barista was my old high‑school math teacher, serving me a latte that smelled like chalk. I tried to hand over my card, but it turned into a tiny silver key that wouldn't fit any slot. While I fumbled, a familiar face appeared—my brother, who moved away years ago, now wearing my boss's suit and looking confused about a meeting we didn't have. I felt a wave of embarrassment as I realized I was still in my pajamas, the same ones I wore when I was supposed to give a presentation last week. The whole scene flickered, the shop walls morphing into the lobby of the office I work at, and I woke up just as the alarm buzzed, still half‑holding that metallic key.