NOVEL WEB Chapter 10: The Things That Stayed
He walked the hallway slowly, tracing his fingers along the walls, though he wasn't sure why. The wallpaper was rough. Cold in some places, warm in others. A light buzzed overhead, then flickered out.
He stopped in front of a painting.
A crooked frame.
The canvas was empty.
Just beige brushstrokes. A hint of something once outlined—long since erased.
Below it, a small plaque.
"The Day It Didn't Happen."
He didn't know what that meant.
But his chest hurt when he read it.
At the end of the hall was a door.
Not like the others.
This one was painted blue, the same shade as the sky in a memory he couldn't place.
He opened it.
Inside: a small room. Warm. Familiar in a way that made him feel like a stranger to himself.
A couch sat against one wall. Faded green. A pile of worn books on the floor. A coat hung by the door—one he thought he'd lost years ago.
The window showed a yard. Grass. Fences. A plastic swing hanging from a tree.
He walked in, slowly.
There was no dust.
The air smelled like soap. And toast.
Something in his chest cracked.
He sat on the couch.
It creaked beneath him, the way furniture does when it remembers who you were.
On the coffee table: a small photo album.
He opened it.
The photos were blurry. Faces turned away. Some scratched out entirely. One showed a child's hand holding a red balloon.
Another showed a figure—small, smiling—but the face had been torn out.
The photo behind that was blank.
Just white.
He closed the book.
"Are you starting to see it yet?" came a voice.
Not hers.
The Archivist.
But he wasn't in the room.
Just the voice.
"These are the things that stayed. They don't always mean they're true."
"You've been editing the story as you go. Most people do."
The protagonist whispered, "Editing what?"
Silence.
Only the ticking of a clock on the wall.
Except…
There was no clock.
He stood and looked out the window again.
The swing was moving.
Back and forth.
No wind.
No one in it.
Just moving.
He blinked.
And it stopped.
He turned to leave.
But the door wasn't blue anymore.
It was red.
And on the floor in front of it:
a single red shoe.