The corridor’s lit by a bare bulb, scabs of old paint casting stalactite shadows on the ceiling ‒ the stench of industrial cleaner, of bile and mould, fills him and he knows the bile is his own.
Panic bubbles up from his gut, forcing itself from him in one long animal scream, a noise that terrifies him, that makes him scream louder and longer until his throat is raw and his larynx stutter into silence.
Then he sees it, an arrow cut in the grey wall, a hole in this otherworld into a familiar one, and he sees his car, still at work where he left it, still part of a life he can’t return to.
Set in the arrow like a gemstone in a ring is a harp – golden, luminous – and he finally knows he’s ready to let go: breath drifts from his lungs as he follows the sign.
Written in response to Sonya at Only 100 Words Three Line Tales. See the photo, write a tale in three liness … Only, this is a massive cheat as it’s at least four and probably should me more.