Deep in the quiet of an abandoned building, a staircase winds upward, disappearing into shadow. The wood beneath each step groans softly, worn smooth by years of footsteps now long forgotten. Dust clings to the banister, swirling in the dim light that seeps through cracked windows. The air is thick with the scent of old wood and time, heavy with an absence that lingers like an unspoken secret.
The walls along the staircase are faded, their peeling paint revealing layers of color from lives that once filled these halls. The silence here is different—dense, expectant, as if something waits just beyond sight. Each step forward feels like an invitation and a warning, a choice between retreat and discovery.
Somewhere above, beyond what the eye can see, the stairs continue—twisting, climbing, leading to nowhere and everywhere at once. The destination is unknown, lost in the dark corners of a place that no longer remembers its own purpose. The staircase does not end, does not stop. It only rises, step after step, into the unknown.
And yet, for all its mystery, there is a feeling of familiarity, as if this journey has been taken before. The weight of unseen footsteps lingers in the air, echoes of those who once climbed but never returned. Whether the staircase leads to something or simply loops in endless ascent is a question left unanswered.
Only one thing is certain: the further one climbs, the more the world below fades. The past dissolves, the present stretches thin, and the future is swallowed by shadow. The only way to know the truth is to keep climbing. But even then, the question remains—does the staircase truly end, or has it simply always been?
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