Enter The Eternal Halls

Most people in situations like this would start banging on the bars, demanding to be let out. Not me.

I just sat there, waiting for something to happen. Maybe a bell would ring and lunch would begin, it could be anything, really. I couldn’t have cared less whether this was real or a dream.

“Apathy.”

The word came from the other side of the wall. It wasn’t a guard who spoke, nor that earlier voice in my head, but someone else, another prisoner, I assumed. At the very least, I was now interested.

I moved closer to the wall and asked, “Are you real?” In hindsight, if this was reality, that probably sounded a little worrisome. But I’ve never been great with words, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what I believed anymore.

Apparently, I startled whoever was in the cell next to mine. I heard a sharp jolt, like they hadn’t expected anyone to respond to what they'd said.

“Sorry,” came the reply. It was spoken so softly and sincerely that it made me wonder that if this place was real, did it only take in the falsely accused?

“I can read emotions better than I can read words,” the voice continued. “Most people arrive with fear or panic, but you showed up with apathy. I just thought it was curious, that’s all.”

From the sound alone, I couldn’t tell if the speaker was a boy or girl. Either way, they sounded small and unsure of themselves. And what did they mean, they could read emotions? Most people can, at least a little. I think.

A guard approached, unlocked the cells, and handed me a bracelet, this prison’s version of handcuffs, I suppose. He announced something that actually brought a smile to my face, even if it were only a small grin.

"Lunch time" the guard said dryly. What shocked me most wasn't the raspy-ness of his voice but rather how he seemed to be a mix between a lizard, dinosaur and underpaid salaryman.

When I stepped out my cell, I finally got to meet the person behind the voice. She was a little mousy girl, not in the sense that she looked like a mouse, although given the strange appearances of the guards, I wouldn’t be surprised if more hybrids existed here. At a glance, she was more or less human.

I wish I could describe her better, but I never really deserved that liberal arts degree. Words have never been my strong suit.

So here’s the best I can do: imagine a woman of average height, with average-length hair in an average color, wearing average clothes. That’s what she looked like, until the veil slipped.

Beneath the surface was a figure out of a fantasy novel. I wanted to call her an elf, but that didn’t quite fit. Elves, in the media I’ve seen, are regal and elegant. She was more grounded, more real. Something entirely her own. But even still, all of this came from a glance before whatever it was that obscured her appearance before reactivated.

We followed the guard down a corridor that seemed too wide and too tall for its purpose, like it had been built for creatures far larger than us. The walls shimmered faintly, not with magic exactly, but like heat radiating off of asphalt. It made everything feel just a little unreal, or maybe too real.

The girl walked beside me without saying a word. Up close, she seemed even smaller, her posture careful, like she was trying not to take up space. Her bracelet made a soft note every time she moved her wrist, almost like wind chimes. Mine just felt cold and a little too tight.

The cafeteria, or whatever passed for one in this place, looked like a halfway point between a medieval/Viking dining hall and a government break room. Long tables stretched across the room with trays already set out, steam lazily rising from each one. The smell was… hard to place. It wasn't bad, not good either. Just strange.

We were motioned toward a table near the edge of the room. The girl sat down quietly, then, with a small glance in my direction, patted the seat across from her. A shy gesture, like she wasn’t sure if I’d take it.

“I’ve been here a couple of years,” she said once I sat down. Her voice was a bit stronger now, like it gained confidence just by being heard. “I used to keep to myself, but I guess talking to people helps.”

She gave a small, apologetic smile, then looked down at her tray. Thoughts about what she must've done to find herself in here crossed my mind but I quickly pushed those aside as I followed her gaze.

The food looked edible, but just barely. A pale blue stew with floating bits that shimmered like fish scales. Something that looked like bread but gave off a faint citrus scent. And a cup filled with a liquid that shifted colors every time you blinked.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she added quickly, noticing my hesitation. “The stew helps with memory, or so they say. The bread’s just bread. And the drink... they say it keeps your dreams from leaking into the walls.”

It took a moment for me to register if the girl was joking was not. I wasn't sure what to do with that information so I picked up the cup and stared into it. The colors inside swirled like oil and rainwater, and for a second, I thought I saw a reflection that wasn’t mine.

“So this place,” I said, trying to sound cool and casual, “what exactly is it?”

She looked up again, this time holding my gaze. “It’s a prison,” she said simply, “but not just for criminals. It’s for people who don’t fit into their regular worlds. People who break the rules reality didn’t even tell them about.”

Her words settled between us, soft and heavy.

“I don’t remember breaking anything.” I said.

She nodded. “Most of us don’t. That’s kind of the problem." After a heavy sigh she has a look like she had just recalled something about her past but I could tell we weren't close enough to share. 

I took a tentative sip from the cup. The liquid shifted from green to gold as it touched my lips, tasting faintly like sweet cookies and wet stone. It wasn’t bad. It just didn’t belong to any natural category of flavor. My body didn’t recoil, but it didn’t relax either.

The girl across from me watched, almost like she was studying me. Or maybe just waiting to see if I’d spit it out.

“It's fine,” I muttered, setting the cup down. “Better than the food they served to us back from my college days.” Speaking on that brought my mood down a little.

That drew a faint smile from her.

I looked down at the stew. It shimmered faintly, A few of the scales or whatever blinked out when I stirred the spoon. The bread-like thing beside it pulsed slightly when touched, like it was exhaling. I tried not to think about that too hard. Afterall, I was told that was just "bread"

Something about the food stirred a deep part of me. Not a memory exactly, it was more like a sensation. Like déjà vu from a dream I couldn’t remember. The kind of dream that makes you wake up unsure if you’re still yourself.

I stared into the bowl, waiting for that feeling to pass.

Graduation.

That word floated up from nowhere, and with it came the same nausea I felt before everything collapsed. My mind flashed back to the auditorium, to the hollow applause, to the way my name barely sounded like mine. To the way no one noticed when I fell.

A voice said I was guilty of something. Some woven fate or some nonsense, whatever it was. I didn’t even know the people who died.

But part of me wondered if I really belonged here anyway.

Maybe this place wasn’t just about crimes. Maybe the girl was right and how this prison is for people who didn’t fit anywhere else.

I looked up, needing to anchor myself in the present.

The cafeteria wasn’t loud, but there was a constant hum of movement, cutlery scraping, hushed voices, something that sounded like prayer and breathing at the same time. Inmates lined the tables, many of them dressed in the same dull gray as us, others in robes or armor that looked like they had been stripped of meaning.

One man sat alone at the far end of the hall, his limbs too long, skin a cracked porcelain white. He didn’t eat. He just watched. Blinking one eye at a time.

A group of three sat together near the center, laughing too loudly, their laughter echoing off the high stone walls. Their eyes glowed faintly. Their bracelets seemed heavier, and thicker than mine. Makes me wonder why.

A pair of guards stood by the exit, quiet and unreadable, except for the constant twitch of their claws tapping against the stone floor.

I leaned forward. “So, what happens after lunch?” I asked.

The girl tilted her head. “Orientation, probably. Or work duty. It changes.” She took a sip from her cup. "It's rather annoying how everyone has to go through orientation each and every time a new person shows up..." She coughed up some of her drink "...It's not like I'm blaming you or anything, I'm sorry, please just forget that last part."

“Don't worry about it." I went to look around for a napkin but I wasn't even sure if this place had them, so I focused back on our exchange. "You said it changes, changes how?”

“It depends on, well I guess you." She paused trying her best to be polite with her phrasing, I guess this girl truly is attuned with emotions. "They take into account who you are. What you did, or rather, what they think you did. And depending on how severe it is, you're either like me and allowed to live leisurely in a cell or some other fate we're not told about.”

She said it gently, but it hit like a stone in my stomach.

I looked down at my tray again, then forced myself to take a bite of the bread. It was soft and warm, strangely sweet. The taste was familiar but in a way that made me uneasy, like it had been copied from a memory and printed slightly wrong.

“They called me a murderer...” I said, unsure why I said it out loud.

She didn’t flinch. But her eyes shifted to a look of pity

“They called me a liar,” she replied quietly. “Said I bent time to escape something I was supposed to face. I think they meant grief. Or maybe guilt.”

I looked at her closely. Her eyes were a soft gray, almost colorless, and something in them felt impossibly old.

“What’s your name?” I asked. Worried about what this jail would do to a supposed mass murderer, I sought for solace before this lunch period ended.

She smiled faintly and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Aeris.”

It was a small moment. A simple name, softly spoken. But in a place like this, it felt like an anchor dropped into shifting seas. In such a short time span the girl had warmed up to me and now I see her clearly through the veil. A lot less mundane and average but instead unique.

As glad as I was to meet her, I didn’t give my name back. Not yet.