Endless Hallway, Navy Suit, and the Crystal Latte

Endless Hallway, Navy Suit, and the Crystal Latte

I woke up late for work and rushed out the front door, but the hallway in my apartment building stretched on forever. I could hear the elevator ding every few seconds, but it never arrived. I finally found the stairs, ran down three flights, and burst onto the street, only to realize I was wearing a navy suit I hadn't bought—my usual jeans and hoodie were gone. The coffee shop I always stop at was there, but the barista was my high school chemistry teacher, who smiled and handed me a latte with a tiny, perfect crystal floating in it. I tried to ask what it was, but the words turned into a soft hum. I took a sip, felt a wave of calm, then heard a train whistle behind me. I turned to see the commuter train I take to the office, but it was painted like an old subway car from the 1970s, and the doors were locked. I stood there, heart pounding, wondering if I should keep waiting or just walk back home.