It started with the dream. Claire found herself in a dark hallway, lined with countless doors. Most were dull and unremarkable, but one stood out—a deep crimson door at the very end. Something about it drew her closer. As she reached for the handle, she always woke up.
At first, she chalked it up to stress. Work was relentless, her friends distant. But the dream persisted, coming back every night like clockwork. Each time, she’d wake just as her hand touched the cold brass handle.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting day, Claire decided to sketch the door. She wasn’t much of an artist, but as the pencil dragged across the page, her hand moved with eerie precision. The crimson paint, the ornate carvings, the faint glow at the edges—it all flowed effortlessly onto the paper.
When she was done, she stared at her work, unease creeping up her spine. The door looked more real on paper than it had in her dreams.
That night, the dream changed.
Instead of waking up when she touched the handle, the door swung open. A figure stood inside, shrouded in shadows. Its voice was calm, almost soothing.
“You’ve been looking for this,” it said.
When she woke, she found the sketch on her desk. Only it wasn’t a sketch anymore. The paper had become textured, the door now three-dimensional, with a handle that glinted in the dim light. Against her better judgment, she reached out.
Her fingers brushed the handle, and the air around her rippled. Suddenly, Claire was no longer in her apartment. She was standing in the hallway from her dreams, surrounded by endless doors, all shut tight except for one. The crimson door loomed ahead, wide open.
Inside was the figure, still cloaked in darkness.
“You opened it,” it said, almost amused. “Few do.”
“What do you want?” Claire whispered.
“It’s not about what I want,” the figure replied. “It’s about what you’ve lost.”
Claire’s chest tightened. Memories she had buried—her sister’s voice, her father’s laugh, the life she once had—flooded her mind.
“If you want it back,” the figure said, “you’ll have to trade.”
“Trade what?” Claire asked, her voice trembling.
The figure stepped closer, and she saw its face—or rather, her face. It was her reflection, only sharper, colder, like a version of herself that had been left to rot.
“Yourself,” it said simply.
Before Claire could respond, she was back in her apartment, gasping for air. The sketch was gone. So was the door.
But when she looked in the mirror, the person staring back wasn’t her anymore. It was the figure from the dream, its cold eyes watching, waiting.