The Cage Series -

They call it The Cage not because of its bars—there are none—but because of its emptiness. A perfect cube of white, seamless light, sixty feet in each direction. No doors. No windows. No shadows to hide in. Just me, a thin mattress that materializes at 21:00 sharp, and a slot in the floor that produces nutrient paste twice a day. The paste tastes of chalk and guilt.

I laughed. A broken, hollow sound. “I am in a cube with no doors. I cannot even stand without touching a wall.”

She was right. Every night, I dreamed of a door. Not a special door—just a plain wooden door with a brass knob, set into a wall of ivy. In the dream, I would reach for the knob, my fingers inches away, and then I would wake up. Always the same. Always so close.

The door swung open onto a hillside at dawn. Grass, wet with dew. A sky the color of a fresh bruise, bleeding into pink. In the distance, a dog barked—a happy sound, free and stupid and wonderful. I stepped through, and the door closed behind me with a soft click. the cage series

Not a hairline this time, but a gouge, wide enough to fit a hand. White light bled from the fissure, but beneath it, I saw darkness. Real darkness, the kind that has texture and depth. I dropped to my knees and shoved my fingers into the gap. The edges were sharp, like broken ceramic, and they sliced my skin. But I pulled.

But I am not alone.

I have been here for 1,247 cycles. Or perhaps 1,248. The light never changes. No day, no night, only a perpetual, sterile noon that burns at the edges of your vision until you learn to stare at your own feet. I have memorized every grain of the floor’s false texture. I have counted the milliseconds between my heartbeats. I have recited the names of every person I ever loved until the sounds lost meaning, becoming just vibrations in a hollow chest. They call it The Cage not because of

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

Below was a ladder, rusted and narrow, descending into a shaft that smelled of ozone and old rain. I did not hesitate. I swung my legs over the edge and climbed down, leaving my mattress, my paste, my 1,648 cycles of silence behind.

Mira appeared less often now. She was fading, she said. The dreams she had consumed were running out, and without new ones, she would dissolve back into the wall from which she came. “You are my last dream, Kaelen,” she whispered. “The only one worth remembering.” No windows

The floor trembled.

I have been out here for three days now. I have not seen another person, but I have seen birds and deer and a fox that stopped to stare at me with ancient, unconcerned eyes. I have eaten berries that made my tongue numb and drunk water from a stream that tasted like cold knives. I have slept under the stars, and for the first time in my life, I did not dream of a door.