Ethan wasn’t sure when it happened — when reality slipped like a rug pulled too quickly from beneath his feet. One moment, he was walking home from work, cutting through the familiar back corridor of his office building, and the next, he found himself in a hallway that stretched endlessly in both directions. The walls were an unremarkable beige, the carpeting a muted green, and the lights overhead buzzed softly, flickering at irregular intervals. No doors. No windows. No exits. At first, he did what anyone would do — he ran. He sprinted down the corridor until his legs burned and his lungs felt like they were being squeezed. But the hallway never changed. Every now and then, he would spot a corner and turn it, only to find another identical hallway. Time felt meaningless here. There was no day, no night. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft, almost inaudible echo of his own footsteps. It wasn’t long before he met the others. The first was a woman named Claire, who claimed she'd been there for months — or maybe years. Time didn't work the same way in this place. Then there was an old man, Samuel, who spoke in riddles and stared too long at the corners where the walls met. More people appeared over time: a teenager named Jordan, a quiet man named Elias, and a woman called Mara, who seemed to have resigned herself to the endlessness. They wandered together, each holding onto the fragile thread of companionship to keep the crushing sense of isolation at bay. But even together, the hallways remained the same. Ethan noticed something odd, though — the more they spoke about escape, the more the hallways seemed to shift. Corners appeared more frequently, faint sounds echoed in the distance, and occasionally, they'd spot what looked like an out- of- place object: a payphone with no dial tone, a single red chair against the wall, or a potted plant whose leaves never wilted. One day, as the group sat in one of the “rest spots” they had claimed — a corner where the buzzing lights were slightly dimmer — Samuel finally spoke something clear amidst his usual riddles. “The way out, ” he said, “isn’t a door. It’s a decision. ” Ethan furrowed his brow. “What does that mean?” Samuel only smiled softly and leaned his head back against the wall. It wasn’t until Claire broke down days later — or maybe hours — that Ethan began to understand. She cried about her life outside: regrets, fears, mistakes she never made amends for. She spoke of how she had given up long before she ended up in the liminal space, how she had felt stuck even in the real world. And that’s when it clicked. This place wasn’t just a trap — it was a reflection. They were all stuck because, in some way, they had been stuck long before arriving here. Their minds, their hearts — they had built invisible walls around themselves long before these beige hallways ever appeared. The escape wasn’t about finding a door; it was about breaking those inner barriers. Ethan stood up, heart pounding. “I think I get it, ” he said to the group. “We’re not escaping this place until we escape ourselves. ” One by one, they began confronting their truths — their guilt, their fears, their regrets. Claire forgave herself for abandoning an old friend. Jordan let go of the anger he held for his estranged father. Mara admitted she had been too afraid to live fully, so she simply existed. And slowly, the hallways began to change. Doors started to appear, not all at once, but subtly, almost like a ripple. The fluorescent lights dimmed, replaced by a soft, natural glow. Ethan found his door after a long talk with Samuel, who simply smiled and chose to stay behind. “Not ready yet, ” Samuel said softly. “But you are. ” As Ethan stepped through the door, the last thing he heard was the soft buzz of the lights fading away. The principle: Sometimes, the prisons we find ourselves in are of our own making. The way out isn't always about changing our surroundings — it's about changing ourselves