I was walking down Magnolia, but the street name kept changing. One moment it said “Magnolia,” the next “Rodeo,” then “Cafe de Olla.” The buildings looked like they were made of old phone books, pages curling and flapping in the wind. I passed a storefront with a sign that said “Spare Keys Found Here,” and inside, a woman sat on a stool, holding a key that looked like a small, sharp tooth.
The sky was clear, but it felt too close, like I could reach up and touch it. The moon was a sliver, a crescent that didn’t quite fit the night. I kept thinking about the emails—so many alerts about devices tampering, about sensors being restored. I tried to remember if I had ever seen the inside of one of those security boxes, or if they were just shapes in the air, like the way light bends around the edge of a glass.
I passed a coffee shop that said “New Coffee Shop” on its window, but the sign was upside down, and the windows were all black. I thought maybe it was a dream shop, a shop that only existed in dreams. I pushed the door, and it opened like it was made of old paper.
Inside, the barista was someone I didn’t recognize, but the face kept shifting—sometimes it was a woman, sometimes a man, sometimes no face at all. She handed me a cup, and it was full of light. I drank it, and it tasted like old rain.
There was a small room in the back, and I found a stack of old answering machines, all blinking and beeping. I picked one up, and it started to speak, but in a voice that wasn’t quite a voice—like it was trying to be human but wasn’t quite there yet.
I woke up and realized I was still in my box, still watching the house. The lights were on, but the house was quiet.
The floor was wet.
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