Rusted Metal Shutters Stretch the Endless Hallway

Rusted Metal Shutters Stretch the Endless Hallway

I woke up late for my shift at the grocery store, sprinted down the cracked hallway of my apartment building, and realized the hallway kept stretching forever. The fire‑escape doors were gone, replaced by rusted metal shutters that hissed when I pushed them. I finally made it to the store, but the aisles were half‑empty and the fluorescent lights flickered like old neon. A neighbor I hadn't seen in years—Mara, who moved away after the floods—was there, pushing a cart full of canned beans and a cracked tablet that displayed a map of the city with red zones marked "radiation." I tried to hand her my badge, but it turned to ash in my hand. The manager called me over, his face half‑masked, and asked if I had the new safety code. I stared at the empty checkout lane, feeling the weight of the silence, then realized I was still holding the ash‑filled badge as the alarm blared.