I remember.
The white room stretched endlessly in every direction. Adam's hands were smaller—child-sized palms pressed against the sterile floor. The walls hummed with that familiar electric buzz; he knew it was several fluorescent lights, but he couldn't really discern where the lights actually were.
The rooms were just bright everywhere. He thought that was just how it was.
He sat cross-legged on the cold surface, tracing his fingers across the gaps in the flooring. There was never a single speck of dirt in there, not even a single dust particle.
Hours passed. Maybe days? Days of being stuck in there, not eating anything, and not seeing anyone else. He was being starved.
And the lights. The lights were never turned off.
I remember there was a door, almost invisible.
A door materialized in the wall—or perhaps it had always been there, and he'd simply forgotten to notice. Adam stood, his bare feet making no sound against the floor.
There was a glass window.
