He was halfway down the staircase before he realized the building didn't have a second floor.
The steps wound in a tight spiral, the walls pressing close, as if the space had been carved out reluctantly. The light above had vanished. The only illumination came from small lamps embedded in the stone, flickering softly like they were remembering something painful.
He didn't remember coming in. Didn't remember why he was descending.
But he kept going.
The air thickened with each step—humid, faintly sweet. A scent like burned paper and rain-damp soil. It caught in his throat.
At the bottom, the stairs ended without warning. Just a single hallway, smooth stone walls and a gentle curve ahead. He followed it. There was nowhere else to go.
The corridor opened into a room.
It had no corners.
He didn't notice at first—just saw the familiar shape of a desk, an armchair, a window with no outside. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he realized the angles were all wrong. Everything curved inward, like the room had been pulled from memory instead of built.
And in the middle of the room, she was standing there.
The girl.
Same pale face. Same small frame. Same red shoes.
But this time, her dress was torn and singed at the hem, as if it had been caught in fire and never fully burned away.
She was facing the far wall, unmoving.
He stepped inside, the sound of his footsteps oddly muted.
"Hey," he said, cautiously.
No response.
He moved closer, eyes fixed on the scorched fabric. The burns weren't fresh, but they hadn't aged either. They existed in a kind of stuckness—like everything else here.
When he was a few steps away, she finally turned her head. Not all the way. Just enough.
"I thought you weren't coming this time," she said.
Her voice was soft. Familiar.
"I didn't know I was supposed to."
"You never do."
He glanced around. "What is this place?"
"You've been here before."
"I don't remember."
"That's the point."
She took a slow step toward him. Her dress barely moved with her. Her arms were behind her back.
"Did you bring it?" she asked.
"Bring what?"
She tilted her head.
"You said you would."
"I don't remember saying that."
"You always say that."
The lights flickered.
A low hum pulsed from somewhere in the walls. He couldn't tell if it was mechanical or alive.
Her eyes were on him now.
"You're forgetting again."
He opened his mouth to respond, but his breath hitched—there was smoke in the air now. Not thick. Just enough to sting faintly behind the eyes.
He turned, looking for the exit.
There was no door behind him. Just the wall. Seamless. Smooth.
He looked down at his hands.
And paused.
Ash. Imprinted to his palm
Dry. Warm.
He hadn't touched anything.
Had he?
He looked up.
The girl was gone.