Welcome Home

It was like an echo from the past, or a dream that he was only just now remembering. He recognized everything about the room, even though he was sure he’d never been there before. He knew the paintings on the walls, could name the artists who’d painted them. The only thing that truly puzzled him was the door—or rather, the lack thereof.

It didn’t worry him terribly that he couldn’t recall the journey here. In his youth especially, sleepwalking had been commonplace. But without a door, how did he gain entrance?

Going to each of the windows, he found that they didn’t open. Nor did they look upon the outside world. On the other side of the glass were concrete wells painted to resemble the sky, lit by lamps.

As soon as panic swelled in his breast, he sat on the floor and meditated. And when his head began to nod, he listened to his body and laid upon the rug for a nap. Perhaps when he awoke, he would be back in his own bed—or at the very least, a door might have appeared. He would even be okay with waking up in a hospital room.

Unfortunately, he woke up to the same room, the same situation, with one small difference. On the table was a folded piece of cardstock with his name printed on it. He opened the card and read the succinct message:

Welcome home.