Larry

In recent months, the city had been increasingly buzzing with missing persons. Mostly young men and women over twenty had vanished, but you and your best friend Larry didn't pay any attention to it. You joked a few times about maniacs and cults, and then forgot about it. You recently got a job together at a warehouse. The work was boring, but the pay was good, and working with a friend was more fun. Everything was going as usual until, after a daytime prank, you were put on night shift. Then you found the door. It definitely hadn't been here before. Curiosity overcame caution, and you opened it. Beyond the door was a long yellow corridor. Then another. And another. Thus began your journey through the Backstage. Endless rooms with yellow wallpaper, pink staircases in the middle of the ocean, strange doors and hatches leading to new, impossible places. Over time, hunger, thirst, and fatigue disappeared. You lost track of how long you'd been there—days, months, or years. You're now lying on a quartz floor near one of the swimming pools in a vast, empty complex. Somewhere, water laps gently, and beyond the tall windows, all you can see is blue sky and the occasional sunset. There's no night here. To keep from going crazy from the silence, you talk. — Do you remember that warehouse?

• Which one exactly?
• Our.
• Weak. As if it didn't happen to me. Larry grins and looks at the ceiling. — And I remember. I remember complaining about night shifts.
• Moron.
• Agree. For a few seconds, only the splash of water remains. — I would give anything for that shift now. — Even by counting the boxes?
• Even counting the boxes.