There was no elevator button for Floor Zero.
No stairwell sign.No hallway marking.No access code.
Just a door at the base of the building's foundation.Buried behind pipes, hidden under layers of paint, long sealed shut with wax and intent.
But when I touched it, it opened—quietly.Like it had been waiting for me.
The hallway beyond was endless.Not long.Endless.
It bent and moved as I walked, reshaping around my thoughts.
The walls were made of wood, but warped.Pulsing.Alive.
Floor Zero was not a place.
It was a memory engine.
A vault of everything that had ever happened here, and everyone who had lived it.
I passed doors without numbers.
Inside, I saw:
A child crying beneath wallpaper that bled.
A woman reciting her rent aloud while her teeth fell out one by one.
A man peeling layers of his own face off, revealing different names underneath each time.
All of them tenants.
All of them signed in.
Some saw me.
Some didn't.
Some screamed.Some begged.Some warned me to turn back.
But I kept walking.
Until I reached my door.
It didn't say my name.
It said:
"Why You Came."
I hesitated.
Because I knew what was on the other side.
Not a monster.Not a shadow.Not even Chapter Zero.
Just the reason I'd accepted this lease.
I stepped inside.
The room was ordinary.
Old couch.Coffee table.A flickering TV stuck on a static channel.
And my brother sat on the couch.
Not a ghost.
Not a hallucination.
Just… him.
Young. Whole. Unaware.
"Hey," he said.
Like it was any other day.
Like I hadn't been carrying his death for years.
"I missed the call," I whispered.
He shrugged. "I know."
"I ignored it."
"You were scared."
I sat down beside him.
Not speaking.Just existing.
We watched the static for what felt like hours.
It hummed like a lullaby.
"You know why you came here, right?" he asked at last.
I nodded.
"To escape the guilt."
"No," he corrected."You came because you wanted to understand it.""To face it.""And now that you have…""…you can choose to let it go."
He stood.
Walked to the center of the room.
There was a small door there.Lower than the rest.Child-sized.
It creaked open as he touched the handle.
And I saw what was behind it.
A memory.
The last one I hadn't processed.
I was ten years old, hiding in a closet.
Our parents were fighting again.
My brother—older by three years—was covering for me.Telling them I wasn't in the house.Taking the blame.
He got hit.
I stayed hidden.
And I never apologized.
Never thanked him.
I just ran.
That's why I carried the guilt.Not because of the call I missed.
Because I was always hiding.
And he was always protecting me.
"I'm not angry," he said.
"But you have to stop building your life from grief."
"Build it from truth instead."
I stepped forward and knelt by the memory.
Touched it.
It burned for a moment—bright and violent.
Then dissolved into light.
A soft, amber glow that spread through the room.
My brother was gone.
The couch.
The table.
The static.
All gone.
Only the light remained.
And a single sentence written across the floor:
"You are not the things that hurt you."
I stepped out of the room, back into the hallway.
And Floor Zero had changed.
The hallway was short now.
Only a few steps to the exit.
But lining the walls were dozens of handprints.
Some large.
Some small.
All glowing faintly.
Echo appeared beside me, watching.
"Are those the other tenants?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Those who found their answer.""Those who faced themselves.""You've joined them now."
He pointed to a bare patch of wall near the door.
"Leave your print."
I pressed my hand to the surface.
It glowed.
A perfect imprint.
Real.
Lasting.
And beneath it, my name appeared.
Not Elias Marr.
Not a number.
Not a tenant code.
Just:
Elias – Returned
I walked through the final door.
There was no fanfare.
No horror.
Just peace.
Warm air.
A long hallway.
And the first sunlight I'd seen since moving in.