The old building on the corner of 12th and Maple had always been a bit off. No one knew exactly when it was built, but the brickwork showed signs of age, and the windows were always slightly fogged as if the air inside never quite settled. Most people avoided it, not because they were scared, but because it just *felt* wrong—like something was watching them from behind the curtains. One day, a new tenant moved in. A young woman named Clara, who had taken the apartment on a whim after seeing an ad for "spacious, quiet, and affordable." The landlord didn’t ask many questions, just handed her the keys and said, “You’ll be fine.” Clara didn’t think much of it until she noticed the elevator. It was a small, old-fashioned model with a brass door and a flickering light that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. The button for the first floor was missing, and the second floor had a symbol she couldn’t recognize. She never used it at first, preferring the stairs, but the building had no other means of access to the upper floors. One evening, as she was returning from work, she found the doors open. A strange warmth radiated from within, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and rust. She hesitated, then stepped inside. The moment the doors closed, the lights dimmed, and the elevator gave a soft groan, as if it had been waiting for her. It stopped on the third floor. The numbers on the panel blinked erratically, and the door creaked open. There was no one there, just a hallway that stretched endlessly into darkness. Clara turned back, but the elevator doors had already closed again. She pressed the button for the ground floor, but nothing happened. The machine hummed softly, and the walls seemed to press in around her. When she finally managed to escape, she didn’t mention it to anyone. But the next day, she noticed that the third-floor hallway now had a single picture hanging on the wall—a faded portrait of a woman with a familiar face. Clara recognized her from a dream she’d had weeks ago, where she stood in the same place, staring at the same image. Over the following weeks, the elevator began appearing more frequently. Sometimes it would stop on different floors without warning, sometimes it would take her places she hadn’t intended to go. Each time, she felt a strange pull, as if the elevator itself was guiding her toward something. One night, she found herself on the fifth floor, where the hallway was lined with mirrors. In each one, she saw a different version of herself—some smiling, some crying, one with eyes that stared back at her. She started leaving small tokens in the elevator: a flower, a note, a coin. The next day, they were gone, replaced by things she hadn’t brought. A hairpin, a photograph of a man she didn’t know, a key that didn’t fit any lock in her apartment. The more she explored, the more the elevator seemed to change. One day, the buttons rearranged themselves, and the numbers became letters. When she pressed "E," the elevator moved down, even though there was no such floor. When she pressed "S," it went up, but the lights flickered and the temperature dropped sharply. Clara began to suspect that the elevator wasn’t just a machine—it was something else, something that had existed long before the building was built. Maybe it had been part of another place, another time. And maybe it had been waiting for someone like her. One morning, she found a message written in the dust on the elevator floor: "Don’t go alone." She didn’t know who had written it, or when. But she also didn’t know if she could trust the elevator anymore. As she stood in front of it, the doors slowly opened. This time, the light was steady, and the air was still. The mirror inside reflected not her face, but a shadowy figure standing behind her. She turned, but there was no one there. The elevator doors closed, and the machine began to move. She never saw the outside world again. Her apartment was left untouched, her belongings neatly arranged, as if she had simply vanished. The building was eventually sold, and the new tenants never spoke of the elevator. But sometimes, when the power flickered, they swore they heard a soft hum, and the smell of lavender and rust filled the air. And if you ever find yourself in an old building with an elevator that doesn’t belong to the world you know, remember this: the doors may open, but not all of them lead back.