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I flinch before I even finish the thought. My throat constricts.

I’m still here. It wasn’t a dream.

A soft sound draws my attention. The man,Sacha, is sitting at a desk across the chamber, turning the pages in a book. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but somehow I’m certain he knows I’m awake.

My gaze locks on to his profile, waiting for something—a change in his expression, a shift in posture,anything. But he doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. And the silence makes it worse.

Pushing myself up off the floor, I wince as every muscle protests. My throat is burning, and my head pounds, but the discomfort isn’tjust pain. Everything feels too slow, unreliable, like my body hasn’t decided if it wants to keep going. Despite it, I get to my feet, but I don’t move away from the wall. It’s safer there. Or at least it feels like a boundary I can control. Wall against my spine. Solid. Not tilting under me the way everything else does.

At the desk, he turns another page, one finger tracing the corner of the paper.

“There’s water on the table.”

He doesn’t look up. Just gestures to my left. My head turns automatically toward the table where the pitcher of water is.

“You should drink.”

The mention of water makes my still-parched throat crave relief even more, but moving seems like a stupid idea. Most of yesterdayis a blurry mess of mixed up memories—heat and fear and confusion layered so thick I can’t tell one from the next. But one memory stands out from the rest.

Yesterday, I drank like I was drowning. I didn’t even use the cup. I remember the weight of the pitcher. The way it shook in my hands. I didn’t even think. I just drank. I should be embarrassed about how I behaved. But all I can think about is that I want to do it again.

Thirst wins over fear, and I push away from the wall. The pitcher is heavier than I remember, and water sloshes over my fingers as I pour some into the cup—too fast, too much. My hands still aren’t steady enough to hold the weight.

Once the cup is full, I retreat back to the wall, the only solid thing I can trust right now, then force myself to take one sip. Just enough to cool the burn in my throat.

“I need to leave.” I keep my focus on the cup and don’t look at him. “I need to go home.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible today.”

“What do you mean,notpossible?” Panic fills me again before I can stop it. My chest tightens, it’s hard to breathe. “There has to be a way out. The door … the door will be there. I saw it.”

The sound of him turning another page reaches me. “The door that brought you here has gone. It won’t return for some time.”

“How long?” My fingers tighten around the cup, while I fight to keep my voice steady. “When will it come back?”

“That’s difficult to predict.”

“That’s not good enough! I can’t stay here.” The cup slips from my fingers, water splashing across the floor as I tighten my grip to stop it falling.

That finally draws his attention. He looks up, his gaze landing on me. I have to stop myself from looking away. “Yet nonetheless, here you are.”

I have no answer to that. No matter how much I want to argue about it, he’s right. I’m trapped.

But am I?The thought surfaces before I can stop it. The door vanished after I stepped through, but what if I missed something? I was exhausted, barely able to stand. I didn’t spend much time looking around.

“No, I don’t believe it. Therehasto be another way out.”

Without waiting to see if he has any response, I turn toward the archway. The top of the staircase is visible from where I’m standing.If I came up that way, I can go back down. Something might be there. Something I missed in yesterday’s haze.

The steps are narrower than I remember. I move quickly, one hand sliding along the central column for balance as the spiral hides everything ahead until the floor appears beneath me.

The room itself looks the same as I remember. Smooth walls. No doors. No windows. Nothing that should have let me in.

“This doesn’t make sense.”

I circle the edges more slowly now. The same blue light hums from the walls. Last time I was here, the air dropped so fast it felt briefly alive, brushing against my skin like breath. I’m not feeling that now, but I keep checking over my shoulder anyway, while I press my hand to the walls, section by section, searching for anything—a crack, a seam, a hidden mechanism. Theremustbe something I missed.

But the walls remain stubbornly solid and unbroken under my fingertips. No amount of pressing, tapping, or feeling along the surface reveals any weakness.