The Man Who Stood Between Two Moments

The hallway wasn’t supposed to feel alive, but the lights flickered in a pattern too careful to be random—soft, nervous pulses, as if the building sensed someone approaching before he actually appeared. When he finally stepped into view, he did not arrive like a person entering a place. He arrived like a moment slipping back into existence. He stood at the far end, framed by peeling walls and a humming ceiling lamp. His shadow leaned slightly to the left, detached from the clean line of his body, mimicking him with a delay that felt deliberate. When he moved, the shadow hesitated. When he stopped, it corrected itself, almost embarrassed. His first footstep sent an echo drifting down the corridor half a second too late. The man lifted his head toward the hallway clock. 03:12. 03:14. 03:13. Then it settled back to 03:12, as if remembering the answer after glancing at someone else’s paper. A thin silver thread glimmered between his fingertips—so faint it could’ve been imagined—before dissolving into the floorboards like a secret returned to the building. He let out a slow breath. Not tired. Not surprised. More like someone revisiting a familiar error. His voice was barely louder than the buzz of the lights. “Here it is again,” he murmured. “The moment that refuses to stay fixed.” The hallway seemed to listen. And for a single beat, even time held still.