"She Woke Up Alone"

The first thing she noticed was the cold.

It wasn’t the kind of cold that made her shiver or pull up a blanket. It was a still, unnatural cold—like the air in the room hadn’t moved in years. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, revealing a pale ceiling with unfamiliar cracks. A dim, flickering light buzzed somewhere above, casting long shadows on the peeling wallpaper.

She sat up. The mattress beneath her groaned, stiff and worn like it hadn’t been touched in a decade. The room was bare except for the bed, a wooden chair, and a dusty mirror in the corner. Her fingers trembled as they brushed her arms. She was wearing a hospital gown.

Where am I?

Panic flickered behind her ribs. She scanned the room again, faster this time, more desperately. No windows. No clock. Just a metal door with no handle on her side.

Her feet touched the cold floor. She winced. Every sound she made echoed like it didn’t belong here. Like she didn’t belong here.

She moved toward the mirror. Her reflection stopped her in her tracks.

It was her face—but not quite. Her hair was longer than she remembered. Paler. Her eyes seemed darker, deeper. There was something hollow in her own expression, like a version of herself she didn’t recognize.

She touched the mirror. It was real. She was real. But none of this made sense.

She didn’t remember how she got here. She didn’t remember anything at all.

A low hum began to vibrate through the walls. She turned quickly. The door clicked once and then creaked open on its own.

Heart pounding, she stepped into the hallway.

It was dim and sterile, with lights flickering above. The walls stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors just like hers—numbered in faded red paint. She looked behind her. The door she’d come through had no number at all.

She picked a direction and started walking. Every door looked the same. Every step echoed back louder than the last. After what felt like hours, she saw something different—a desk, with a computer monitor glowing faintly. The screen flickered, then came to life as she approached.

“Welcome back, Elara.”

The name meant nothing to her.

She typed: Who am I?

The screen paused. Then:

“You are Elara 7. Your memories are still stabilizing.”

Stabilizing? She swallowed hard.

Where am I?

“Facility 12. Section D. Memory Recovery Unit.”

Before she could type again, a soft hiss came from the wall behind her. A panel slid open. A figure stepped out—tall, human-looking, but not quite human. Its skin was smooth and silver, its eyes glowing faintly.

“Elara 7,” it said in a calm voice. “You’ve woken ahead of schedule.”

She backed away. “What are you?”

“I am your Handler. I am here to help you reintegrate.”

“I don’t understand. What happened to me? Why don’t I remember anything?”

The Handler paused. “Your previous iteration experienced emotional collapse. Your mind rejected reality. We are attempting restoration.”

“Previous… iteration?”

“You are part of Project Elara. A cognitive preservation experiment. You are the seventh version. Each time your mind rejects the world, we reset the simulation and attempt again.”

Elara’s breath caught. “Simulation?”

The hallway seemed to pulse around her. For a moment, she felt the world shift—like it wasn’t built on solid ground but on wires and code and flickering data. Her knees weakened.

“This isn’t real?” she whispered.

The Handler nodded once. “Not in the way you understand reality. But your mind perceives it as real. That is the purpose.”

Elara turned in a slow circle, her eyes wide. “How many times has this happened?”

“Six prior instances,” the Handler replied. “Each ended in collapse. But this time, you’ve awoken sooner. That is… promising.”

She felt sick. A stranger to her own life. Her own mind. If this was all a loop, if her memories had been erased again and again… was she even still herself?

“I want to leave,” she said.

“There is no exit. Only completion.”

Elara clenched her fists. “Then I’ll find a way.”

The Handler tilted its head. “That is also part of the pattern.”

Suddenly, the lights dimmed. The hallway began to flicker violently. A deep rumble shook the floor.

“What’s happening?” she yelled.

“Another rejection,” the Handler said, voice distant now. “Your mind is unraveling the simulation.”

The world shattered.

She woke up.

Again.

The room was the same. The cold. The bed. The flickering light. The door with no handle.

But this time, she remembered.

And this time, she wasn’t going to play along.