Disclaimer: This story is a fictional narrative inspired by a dream shared with me by a friend. It was developed with the assistance of AI, based on detailed plot points and cues I provided. Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.
Lily stood under the cool hum of fluorescent lights in the specs shop—an almost painfully white space. White floors, white walls, white racks stacked with glasses of every size and shape, and white ceiling tiles reflecting in countless mirrors. It was sterile, almost divine, like a temple for sight. And in that purity stood Beth.
Beth, the 50-year-old matron in a starched saree, smiled with eyes full of something unreadable and pressed stacks of rupee bills and clinking coins into Lily’s hands. Too many. The currency spilled from her grasp, slipping between her fingers and scattering across the shining floor, metallic rings echoing like tiny alarms.
As Lily tried to gather them, the weight of wealth grew heavier. She turned to look at herself in one of the mirrors. Her reflection stared back, arms full, face uncertain, surrounded by endless versions of herself—each one trying to hold more than they could carry.
Two doors stood at opposite ends of the shop. One led toward Beth and the others—faint silhouettes of other shoppers, perhaps watchers. The other stood alone. Without thinking, Lily stepped through the lone door.
The whiteness evaporated. She was in a tower now.
The stone staircase rose ahead of her, old and spiraling into darkness. The air was cold, and visibility was limited to five steps ahead. The walls pressed inward, damp and timeless. There were no torches. No windows. Just stone, silence, and the echo of coins shifting in her pockets.
As she turned a corner, a figure stood in her path—neither man nor woman. Their clothing was askew, their presence invasive. Lily froze. The figure leered, reached out. Panic bloomed in her chest. She clutched a coin—just one—and extended it.
The figure paused, distracted. Lily slipped by.
But the staircase was infinite. With each turn, another figure appeared. Some lecherous, some silent, others with auras that chilled her spine. She moved faster, learning their rhythms, paying them off when she could. One coin. One bill. It was all she could afford to spare.
Oddly, as she climbed, her steps quickened. Her body adjusted. She grew sharper. Stronger. The ones who once frightened her became easier to bypass. She learned who to bribe, who to avoid, who to stare down.
Her cash supply fluctuated. When it dwindled, she felt lighter. Freer. But when it inexplicably surged again—more notes, more coins—panic rose. The burden returned. The fear that she wouldn’t be able to move quickly enough. She ran when the weight increased, desperate to be lighter.
Then—light. A thin slit in the stone: a window.
She stopped.
Something told her to turn around. She retraced a few steps and found a narrow pathway branching off. She followed it, and with each step, the path grew brighter.
The stone faded. The mirrors returned.
She was back in the specs shop.
Beth was waiting. Smiling. Offering more rupees.
Lily didn’t resist. She took them, knowing they would slip away again.
Then, silently, she began walking toward the other door.
