The first time Clara saw the door, she was standing in the middle of a forgotten library, dust swirling in the slanted light from a single window. It had been abandoned for decades, its shelves sagging under the weight of neglected books. She had been hired to catalog the collection, but something about the place made her uneasy. The air felt thick, like it held its breath. And then she saw it—a door that wasn’t there before. It stood between two bookshelves, solid and dark, with no handle or hinges. Just a smooth wooden surface, as if it had always belonged there. Clara hesitated, her fingers brushing against the edge of the nearest shelf. The wood was cold, unnaturally so. When she stepped closer, the air around the door seemed to ripple, like heat rising from asphalt. She reached out, and the moment her hand touched the surface, the world shifted. The library vanished. In its place was a hallway lined with mirrors. Not just ordinary mirrors—each one reflected a different version of herself. Some were older, some younger, others wearing clothes she didn’t recognize. One looked at her with eyes that were entirely black. She took a step back, but the hallway stretched endlessly in both directions. Then, the mirrors began to hum. Clara turned and found the door gone. Instead, a small plaque on the wall read: *“Welcome to the Corridor of Reflections.”* She tried walking forward, but the mirrors moved with her, their reflections shifting subtly. One mirror showed her holding a child, another showed her lying on the floor, blood pooling beneath her. She ran, her heartbeat echoing in the narrow space, until she stumbled into a room filled with clocks. Each one ticked at a different pace, some moving backward, others frozen mid-swing. A voice whispered in her ear, “You’re not the first to wander here.” She spun around, but the room was empty. A single chair sat in the center, facing the wall. On the wall was a painting of a woman who looked exactly like her. The woman’s lips moved, though no sound came out. Clara reached out to touch the painting, and the world shifted again. This time, she stood in a quiet town square, where the people moved like puppets. Their faces were blank, their mouths unmoving. Above the square hung a clock that never stopped ticking. A sign nearby read *“Time is not linear here.”* She wandered through the streets, trying to find someone who could explain what was happening. But everyone ignored her, their eyes fixed ahead, as if they had no awareness of her presence. In the center of the square stood a building with a door that opened when she approached. Inside, a man sat behind a desk, reading a book. He looked up and smiled. “You’ve found the Threshold,” he said. “Most only see the door once. You’ve seen it twice.” “Where am I?” she asked. “You are in the Between,” he replied. “A place where all paths converge and diverge. Every choice you’ve ever made, every path you didn’t take—it exists here.” Clara’s mind reeled. “But how do I get back?” “You don’t,” he said gently. “You can choose to stay, or you can try to return. But be warned—once you leave, you may not remember this place. Or worse, you may forget who you are.” She left the building, heart pounding. The town square had changed. Now, the buildings were made of glass, and the sky above was a swirling mass of colors. She tried to find the door again, but it was gone. All she had was the man’s words, and the lingering feeling that she had stepped beyond the edges of reality. Days passed—or perhaps hours, she couldn’t tell. She found herself in a forest where trees whispered secrets in languages she almost understood. A river flowed uphill, carrying leaves that shimmered like gold. She followed it until she reached a clearing, where a stone archway stood. This time, the door was there, waiting. She stepped through. And found herself back in the library, dust still swirling in the sunlight. The door was gone. The bookshelves stood as they had before, untouched by time. But something inside her had changed. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen something real, something that defied logic. She left the library, the weight of the experience pressing against her chest. That night, she dreamed of the corridor again. But this time, she saw a new reflection—one that stared back with her eyes, but with a smile that didn’t belong to her. She woke up with a chill, unsure if she had truly returned, or if she had simply stepped into another version of herself.