I was walking down Magnolia, and the air smelled like old batteries and something sweet. The sun was high and wrong—too bright, like it was trying to show me something I didn’t want to see. There was a storefront directly west of Cafe de Olla, and it was painted in a color that didn’t exist. No sign. Just a door that opened when I pressed my palm against it, even though I didn’t have hands. Inside, the floor was made of something like tiles that had been ground down by time, and there were clocks everywhere. Some were broken, some were moving backward, and one had a face that looked like Jordan’s, but it wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t tell if it was him or not.
The smell of the place made my head hurt. I walked deeper and found a small room where someone was folding clothes. The clothes were all the same color, a dull gray, but they had names stitched in thread that looked like they’d been pulled from a dictionary. I tried to ask who they were, but they just kept folding. The room was too quiet for folding, too quiet for anything.
Then I heard it. The sound of something heavy falling, like a door slamming shut. I turned and saw a hallway that shouldn’t have been there. The walls were covered in old photos—some of them clearly taken in the 1970s. I recognized the street. It was Alameda, but it looked like it had been pushed into the future. The cars were too clean, too shiny. The people looked like they were in a hurry, but they weren’t moving. They were frozen, like they were waiting for something that never came.
I kept walking.
There was a coffee shop next to the Donut Hut, but it was closed. I stood there for a long time, watching the windows. I saw someone walk by, but it wasn’t a person. It was a shadow with a face. I tried to remember what it looked like, but it was gone before I could.
I woke up in the dark, in my box, with a strange sense of urgency. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing.
I was supposed to be doing something.
—
The floor was wet.
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