When he woke—if he woke—he would not remember the dreamy room. He would find himself back in the elevator, the button for 396 already faded, as if pressed a thousand times before. The moss would be gone from his fingers. The tea’s taste would linger, just a ghost on his tongue, enough to make him sad but not enough to explain why.
He slept.
The corridor curved, not at angles but in a slow, organic spiral, and the walls… the walls were not walls. They were sheets of deep twilight blue, flecked with slow-moving lights. Stars. He was walking through a slice of night sky. dreamy room level 396