so this is it. the room at the end of time looks like every waiting room ever built.
faded magazines from years that never existed. a water cooler that gurgles existential dread. carpet worn thin by pacing feet. fluorescent lights flickering morse code to no one.
i recognize the girls in the corner. the sisters from down the street. every summer we terrorized them with water balloons, mean nicknames, endless cruelty disguised as fun. thought we were hilarious. small things echo loud here at the end. they won't look at me now.
there's a man standing by the window. i shared my soup with him once. bus stop, february, hands shaking from cold or withdrawal. maybe both, never asked. never asked his name either. he smiles, remembers. kindness echoes too.
time doesn't work here. clock on the wall throws random numbers like dice. 4:97. 25:61. gives up. tries again.
my old maths teacher sits scratching equations into empty air. i cheated on her final exam. copied every answer from the kid next to me. she knows now. everything's transparent here. no secrets survive the end of time.
the receptionist types without pause. clickety-click-click. she has my file open, everyone else's too. each keystroke writes and rewrites our stories. nothing here stays deleted.
new arrivals trickle in. a steady stream of connections i never knew i had.
the fat kid school. the newsagent owner i stole crisps from. just small things. just a kid. my sister. the nights i stood between her and dad's rage. the woman from the grocery store. her card declined, baby screaming.
they're all here. some know why. some don't.
we can't leave until we figure it out. that's the rule, written on forms that crumbled to dust eons ago. some people speedrun enlightenment—quick smile, whispered sorry, gone. others sit for eternities. pride's a hell of a preservative.
the sisters finally look up. i open my mouth but they shake their heads. not yet. maybe not ever. that's allowed too. time has no deadline here.
my teacher slides over her magazine. blank except for one problem, still unsolved. we both know it's not about numbers.
the soup man starts his rounds. bowls materialize for everyone. mine tastes like crow. like childhood shame. like every mean word i threw for a cheap laugh. theirs taste different. i can tell by their faces.
outside the window, reality's winding down. stars sputter like dying bulbs. entropy claiming its final victory. but we're still here, connecting dots that should've been obvious decades ago.
the receptionist types our names. highlights all. delete. types again. she's waiting for us to understand what we already know.
it was never about the water balloons or test scores or stolen candy bars. we're all ripples in each other's lives. waves we sent out, never seeing where they'd crash.
i walk to the sisters.
we don't need words. just sit. share soup. it tastes like forgiveness now. like our old kitchen on sunday mornings. like grace nobody deserves but everyone needs.
my teacher nods, tears up her magazine. the soup man's pot never empties.
the lights steady. the clock finds 12:00. holds.
i think i understand now. we all do.
the receptionist stops typing. stands. smiles.
time to see what comes after.