The Gallery Opens
718 Words
The fall lasted less than a second.
Then Rena hit wood—old floorboards, not concrete. Her knees took the impact. Her hands went out automatically, catching her weight before her face hit the ground.
She was already scanning before she stood.
A lobby. Dim. Warm light from a single bulb in a yellowed shade. Dark floral wallpaper peeling at the edges. A reception desk with a brass bell and stacks of yellowed paper. The air smelled like dust, old photographs, and something chemical—developer fluid.
Behind her, the glass door showed nothing but white. The way back was gone.
In front of her, a large mirror in an ornate frame hung behind the desk. Its surface was clouded with age.
Rena heard the others land behind her—grunts, yelps, one sharp curse from Eli. She counted them rising. Six. All there. No injuries.
She reached the desk first. Picked up the top sheet of paper. Typed. Old font. She read aloud:
"Rules of the Gallery. Every hour, the bell rings. When it rings, stand before the mirror and remain still for thirty seconds. Do not move. Do not speak."
Mira's voice cracked. "What happens if we move?"
Rena flipped the paper. Blank.
"It doesn't say."
Cole tried the glass door. Locked. Solid. He pushed. Nothing.
"We're trapped."
"Then we figure it out," Rena said.
She was already moving—left hallway, narrow, dark. Zane fell in behind her without being asked. No hesitation. She noticed that: he didn't wait for permission. He just came.
The hallway opened into a small room. Walls covered in framed photographs—dozens of them. Old black-and-white prints. Mostly couples. Some smiling. Some staring straight ahead.
Rena stopped in front of one. A young man and woman holding hands. The woman's eyes were guarded. Something in her expression—resentment, maybe, or fear.
"She doesn't trust him," Rena murmured.
Zane looked over her shoulder. "Why do you say that?"
"Her hand. She's holding his, but her thumb is pressed down. That's a holding-back gesture. She's not all in."
Zane studied the photo. Then he looked at her.
"You read people like that?"
"Eight years in a women's prison. You learn."
She moved to the desk in the corner. A drawer. She pulled it open—old negatives, glass plates, brittle with age. Beneath them, a piece of paper. Handwritten. Unsteady script.
"Seven plates. Seven regrets. Seven faces that refuse to leave."
She handed it to Zane. He read it once, then again.
"We need to find seven of something," he said.
"Six of us."
"Exactly. One of us is extra. Or one of us is not supposed to be here."
They looked at each other.
A bell rang.
Loud. Sharp. It echoed through the whole building.
Rena's body reacted before her mind caught up—she turned toward the door. She heard the others shouting from the other rooms. Cole's voice. Diana's. Mira's scream.
She and Zane ran back to the lobby.
The rest were already gathering in front of the mirror. The bell was still ringing. Loud, relentless.
"Stand still!" Rena shouted. "Front of the mirror! Now!"
Mira was frozen in the doorway to the right hallway—she hadn't moved. Rena grabbed her arm, pulled her forward, positioned her in front of the glass.
The bell stopped.
Silence.
Rena counted. She kept her eyes fixed on her own reflection.
Her reflection blinked a half-second late.
She felt ice run down her spine.
But she didn't move. She held.
The thirty seconds passed like an hour.
When the timer hit zero—she didn't hear a sound, she just knew—she let her breath out slow.
"Everyone move back."
They did. Diana collapsed against the wall. Eli wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
"That was—"
"That was the rule," Zane said. "You followed it. Good."
He didn't sound relieved. He sounded like he was checking a box.
Rena walked to the doorway of the right hallway. She peered down it. Longer than the others. At the end, a door. Not a room—a door.
"I need to check that," she said.
"Alone?" Zane asked.
"With you. The others can cover the rooms."
She didn't wait for agreement. She just went.
Zane followed.
- Writer
