“The Day I Woke Up in a Room That Didn’t Exist”

I woke up to the sound of dripping water.

Not the soft, familiar kind that leaks from old faucets.

No — this sound echoed, sharp and metallic, as if the droplets were striking steel plates inside a hollow chamber.

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in my bedroom.

The ceiling above me was made of dark glass panels pulsing with a faint purple glow. Thin cracks ran across them like veins, and with each pulse, the shadows shifted, alive and crawling. I pushed myself up. The floor under me was ice-cold cement, but the room around me… it didn’t exist in any world I knew.

There were no windows, just metallic walls.

No door, only the outline of a door — like a shape that wanted to become real but hadn’t yet decided to.

I whispered, “Where am I?”

My voice echoed back with a delay, as if the room had to think before replying.

Then I noticed the notebook.

It was lying right beside me — leather-bound, worn, edges frayed. My name was engraved on the cover in trembling handwriting:

JOURNAL OF ELIAS KENT – 2099

But my name isn’t Elias.

And the year isn’t 2099.

At least… it shouldn’t be.

I opened the first page.

Entry 1 – “If you are reading this, it means the room has awakened.”

The handwriting was mine.

I felt a cold wave run through my spine.

The entry continued:

You will not remember how you got here. That is normal. Memory is the first sacrifice the room takes. Don’t panic. Breathe slowly. Trust no voice but your own. And above all — do not open the door until the room lets you.

The door that didn’t exist.

A deep hum vibrated through the floor. The purple glow on the ceiling brightened. Somewhere above me, gears began shifting. The room was coming alive.

My hands shook as I turned to the next entry.

Entry 2 – “You volunteered for this.”

I read the line three times.

Why would I volunteer for… whatever this was?

The entry explained:

Humanity needed someone who wasn’t afraid to face the unknown. Someone willing to test the Time-Room Project — a chamber designed to record future consciousness and deliver warnings to the past.

My heartbeat pounded.

Time.

A room outside time.

A message to myself.

This wasn’t a prison.

It was a bridge.

But the next sentence chilled me more than anything:

If the room wakes you before the message is complete… something has gone wrong.

I looked up at the ceiling. The cracks spread a little wider. The purple light flickered like a dying heartbeat.

Something had gone wrong.

Entry 3 – “The future is collapsing.”

The handwriting in this entry was rushed, almost panicked.

Cities are dark. Oceans have turned warm and metallic. The sky burns purple at night. We thought we had more time, but the collapse is happening faster than anyone predicted. That is why I — you — agreed to enter the Time Room. To send a message back, a warning.

My chest tightened.

Why couldn’t I remember writing this?

Why couldn’t I remember anything?

Another hum shook the walls. The room vibrated like an engine about to explode. Shadows rippled across the glass ceiling.

I flipped the page.

Entry 4 – “The room feeds on memory.”

This entry was short, only two sentences:

Do not be afraid of forgetting.

Be afraid of what returns when you remember.

My breath caught.

What could that possibly mean?

A sudden knock echoed through the room.

Not behind a door —

but from inside the wall itself.

I stumbled back. My heartbeat raced. The knock came again, louder this time, like fists pounding metal.

Something — or someone — was in the wall.

The journal slipped from my hands.

The outline of the door glowed faintly.

The room wanted me to open it.

I whispered the warning from the first page:

“Do not open the door until the room lets you.”

So why was the door glowing?

Was the room letting me… or luring me?

The purple lights dimmed. The shadows froze. The knocking stopped.

And then — from behind me — a voice whispered:

“Elias… finish the message.”

I spun around. No one was there. The room was empty.

But the voice… it sounded like mine.

Entry 5 – “If you hear the voice, do NOT follow it.”

The next journal entry nearly made me drop the book again.

The room will create an echo of you.

A version made from memory and fear.

It will sound like you.

It is not you.

The voice spoke again, closer this time.

“Elias… come to the door.”

I pressed my back against the wall, gripping the journal like a weapon.

The journal said not to trust the voice.

The journal was written by me.

But what if the voice… was also me?

I turned to the next page with trembling fingers.

Entry 6 – “The final truth.”

Unlike the other entries, this one was written in heavy, dark ink — almost carved into the page.

You did not come here to save the future.

You came here because you already failed to.

The collapse has already happened.

You are the last survivor.

My hands went numb.

The Time Room is not sending a warning to the past.

It is sending your consciousness back to give you a choice:

Rewrite your memory… or remember the truth.

The page ended.

But there was space for one more entry.

And the last line said:

You must decide before the door opens.

A loud metallic click shattered the silence.

The outline of the door became real.

A handle formed.

The hinges appeared.

The door began to open…

slowly…

Behind it — pure white light.

The voice whispered in my ear:

“Elias… we don’t have much time.”

I stood frozen.

If I stepped through that door, I could rewrite everything.

Erase the collapse.

Erase my mistakes.

Erase the person I used to be.

Or…

I could stay.

Remember everything.

Accept the truth.

And be the last witness of a dying world.

The journal slipped from my hand and fell open on the final blank page.

My fingers hovered over it.

My choice.

My ending.

My truth.

The room pulsed once more — a heartbeat waiting for mine.

I closed my eyes.

And I wrote.