Round and round... you turn to face the next hall. It feels like the third in a dozen. Or is it the twelfth? The echoes whisper.
Each step measures a constant backtrack unknown to you. A step, a pause, then a hesitant sigh follows.
You pause. Again. Scribbles on the walls – graffiti from someone long gone, yet the words... they're familiar, almost hauntingly repetitive:
"Coffee lukewarm, corridors stretch, echo ticks again – it's always the same but never, never right..."
Grasping at fixtures along the walls, some are chilling metal knobs – others are cylindrical boxes: "Not again," you mumble, its pulse tangibly threaded with past echoes set adrift:
"Coffee lukewarm, corridors stretch, echo ticks again – it's always the same but never, never right..."
Your choices lie everywhere but nowhere – left seems right, but corridors bend in inevitable rewrites. Pause to grasp your existence at:
Trod cautiously. Remember the rhythm of your footsteps. Prepare for: Coffee graffitied, corridors shifted, echoes relenting. Your way? A tapestry yet unwoven.