Every night, she dreamed of the same place. A long corridor with walls made of pale blue glass, stretching endlessly in both directions. The floor was smooth and cold, like polished stone, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. At the end of the hall, a single door stood slightly ajar, as if waiting for her. She never reached it. Every time she took a step forward, the dream would dissolve into darkness, leaving her gasping awake, heart pounding, but always with the same question: Why does this keep happening? Her name was Lila, and she had lived in the small coastal town of Hollowmere for most of her life. It was the kind of place where everyone knew each other’s business, and the ocean whispered secrets to those who listened closely enough. But Lila didn’t want to hear them. She preferred the quiet solitude of her attic room, where the windows overlooked the cliffs and the sea below. It was there, in that dim, dust-laden space, that the dreams began. At first, they were fleeting—glimpses of the corridor, the scent of lavender, the soft hum of something unseen. But soon, they became more vivid. She could feel the cold of the floor beneath her feet, hear the distant echo of her own footsteps. Sometimes, she would wake up with her hands trembling, her breath shallow, as if she had run a great distance without moving. She started keeping a journal, scribbling down every detail after waking. The entries grew longer, more desperate. She wrote about the blue glass walls, the strange door, the feeling of being watched even when no one was there. Her friends thought she was losing her mind. “You’re overworked,” one said. “You need to take a vacation,” another suggested. But Lila knew something was wrong. Something was calling her. One evening, she decided to stay up past midnight, determined to catch the moment the dream began. She sat by the window, wrapped in a thick blanket, sipping tea that had gone cold. Hours passed. Then, just as the clock struck 3 a.m., the world around her shifted. The room flickered, and suddenly, she was standing in the corridor again. This time, the door was open. The air inside felt different—thicker, heavier. She stepped forward, her breath catching in her throat. The corridor stretched on, but now there were more doors, all closed, lined up like sentinels. One of them creaked slightly, as if it had been touched. She hesitated, then reached out. Her fingers brushed the wood, and the moment they did, the corridor melted away. She found herself in a room filled with mirrors. Not just any mirrors—each one reflected a different version of herself. Some were younger, some older, others unrecognizable. One mirror showed her with eyes like black voids, another with hands that were too long, fingers curled unnaturally. She turned, and behind her stood a figure, its face obscured by shadows. Lila backed away, but the figure moved with her. It didn’t speak, but she felt its presence pressing against her mind, whispering things she couldn’t quite understand. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the room dissolved, and she was back in her attic, panting, soaked in sweat. The next day, she searched for answers. She asked the townspeople about old legends, about places that shouldn’t exist. Most laughed, but an elderly woman named Mira, who sold herbs at the market, spoke in hushed tones. “There are places between worlds,” she said. “Places that don’t belong to anyone. You’ve found one.” Lila didn’t know what to believe, but she kept dreaming. Each night, the corridor changed slightly. The walls became darker, the air colder. The door at the end of the hall now had a handle, and sometimes, she swore she could hear a voice from the other side. It wasn’t clear, but it was familiar, like a memory she had never lived. One night, she decided to go through the door. She walked slowly, her heart hammering. When she reached it, she placed her hand on the handle and turned. The door swung open, revealing not a room, but a vast expanse of stars. She stepped forward, and the ground beneath her vanished. She fell, but not in the way she expected. There was no pain, no fear—only silence. Then, a light. And in that light, she saw something. A city, floating above the clouds, made of silver and shadow. People moved through it, their faces blurred, their voices echoing like wind through hollow trees. She tried to call out, but no sound came. The city pulsed, and suddenly, she was back in her attic, gasping for air, the morning sun streaming through the window. She never saw the corridor again. But sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she could swear she heard a whisper in the air. A voice that wasn’t hers, but somehow, deeply familiar. And she wondered—if the dreams had ended, had she truly left them behind? Or had she only taken the first step into something far greater?