Silver Jacket Barista Opens Door to Hallway of Childhood Bedroom Doors

Silver Jacket Barista Opens Door to Hallway of Childhood Bedroom Doors

I was rushing to catch the 8 a.m. train at the downtown station, my coffee spilling over the notebook I always carry. The platform was the same, but the signs were in a language I didn't recognize, even though the logos looked like the old commuter line. I tried to scan my MetroCard, but the reader beeped and flashed a holographic map of the city that kept expanding, showing streets I never saw before. A woman I hadn't spoken to since high school—she was now a barista, but she also wore a sleek silver jacket like a pilot—stood beside me, holding a clipboard. She smiled, then looked at me as if she were both her old self and some future version. I asked where the train was, and she pointed to a door that opened onto a hallway that stretched forever, lined with lockers that were all my childhood bedroom doors. I started running, but my legs felt heavy, and every step echoed like a subway announcement. I woke up just as the train's doors closed, still holding the cold coffee mug.