Endless Hallway to the Boarded Coffee Shop

Endless Hallway to the Boarded Coffee Shop

I woke up late for work and sprinted down the hallway of my apartment building, but the hallway kept stretching—like it was a subway tunnel that never ended. I finally burst out onto the street and saw the usual coffee shop, except the windows were boarded up and a rusted sign read "Open: 8 am – 5 pm, supplies limited." I fumbled for my keycard, but it was gone; the lock required a biometric scan that kept flashing red. A neighbor I hadn't seen in years—Maya, from college—was standing there in a gas mask, holding a battered backpack. She waved, then vanished as a gust of dust blew through, scattering the broken glass of the storefront. I tried to call my boss, but my phone screen was just static, and the ringtone was a low, metallic hum. I felt a panic that I was missing the train, but the train tracks were just a cracked concrete slab leading nowhere.