The elevator was always the first thing you noticed when you entered the old office building. It stood in the corner of the lobby, a rusted relic from the 1970s, its polished brass doors slightly warped and humming with a low, mechanical whir. Most people avoided it, preferring the stairs or the newer elevators that had been installed years ago. But for those who worked late or had no choice, the old elevator was the only option. No one knew exactly how many floors the building had. Some said seven, others swore there were ten. The numbers on the buttons were faded, and some didn’t even match the floor they were supposed to represent. People whispered that the building was cursed, that it shifted between dimensions or something like that. No one could explain why the lights flickered every time someone stepped inside, or why the temperature dropped by several degrees as soon as the doors closed. Lena started working at the company three months ago. She was an intern, assigned to the third floor, but she often stayed late to finish her tasks. One evening, as the other employees left, she found herself alone in the building. She had no choice but to take the old elevator. The moment she stepped inside, the air felt colder, and the hum of the machine sounded more like a groan. She pressed the button for the third floor, and the elevator shuddered as if it had been waiting for her. As the elevator climbed, the lights dimmed. Lena glanced at the mirror on the wall and saw a shadow behind her. She turned around, but the cabin was empty. When the doors opened, she expected the usual hallway, but instead, she found herself in a different corridor—darker, dustier, and far less familiar. The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper, and the ceiling had cracks that looked like veins. A faint whisper echoed through the space, though she couldn’t tell where it came from. She walked back to the elevator, but the door was gone. Instead, there was a heavy wooden panel with a single knob. She tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. As she turned around, she saw a man standing at the end of the hall. He wore a suit, but it was too clean, too perfect, like it hadn’t aged at all. His face was pale, and his eyes were hollow. He raised a hand, pointing at her, then slowly disappeared into the shadows. Lena ran back to the elevator, but now the button for the third floor was missing. The remaining buttons read “Ground,” “Basement,” and “Unknown.” She pressed “Ground” out of desperation, and the elevator began to descend. The ride was silent except for the sound of her own breathing. When the doors finally opened, she found herself in the basement, a place she had never seen before. The air was damp, and the walls were lined with old filing cabinets, their drawers slightly ajar. In the middle of the room stood a small desk, and on it sat a typewriter. The paper was blank, but the ink was still wet. Lena heard a voice behind her, soft and calm. “You shouldn’t have come here.” She turned, but there was no one there. The typewriter clacked once, and a single sentence appeared on the page: *“The elevator is not just a machine. It is a door.”* She ran back up, but the elevator was gone. The only way out was through the basement. She followed the same dark corridor until she reached a door labeled “Exit.” She pushed it open and found herself back in the lobby, the sun setting outside. The old elevator was still there, its doors closed, as if nothing had happened. Over the next few weeks, Lena kept an eye on the elevator, but it remained silent. She told no one about what she had seen, afraid of being called crazy. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the elevator was watching her, waiting for her to return. One night, she decided to go back. This time, she took the new elevator, but as it reached the third floor, the lights went out. When the power returned, the doors opened to a different floor—one she had never seen. And in the center of the room, standing beside the elevator, was the same man in the suit, smiling.