Zen never remembered falling asleep that night.
One second he was sketching lines on a page that didn't quite make sense — curves of a staircase that twisted into sky — and the next, he was awake in a corridor made of glass.
Everything was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that makes your ears strain for a sound that never comes.
He looked down. No shoes.
Weird.
The floor below his bare feet was warm. There were no walls. Just a single, floating door standing in the middle of the corridor. It looked… unfinished. Unpainted wood, half-rotted at the corners, but with something blinking in the center like a small electronic lock.
The numbers flashed:
> Exit 011_
He stepped forward without thinking. No fear. Just a pull.
And then—
He opened his eyes. His real eyes. Light came through the dorm room window. His phone vibrated once on his pillow.
7:11 AM.
Zen groaned. His head throbbed.
Another one of those dreams. But different. It wasn't just weird—it was clear. Like he could still feel the warmth of that floor under his feet.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Then sat up.
On the desk beside him, the sketchbook he'd left open had changed. A single page was covered in lines.
He hadn't drawn that. Not consciously.
It was the door.
Exit 011. Scribbled in his own handwriting, right beneath it.
Campus was already buzzing by the time he got to the university gates.
It was mid-semester. Everyone either looked like they hadn't slept or like they had studied so hard they could recite textbooks backward. Zen, in contrast, yawned, earphones in, hoodie half-zipped, sketchbook under one arm.
He passed the main fountain and made his way toward Lecture Hall 3. It wasn't a long walk, but it always felt longer on days after strange dreams.
Someone called out to him—"Zen! Yo, did you finish the reading?"—but he only waved lazily, uninterested in the noise.
His head still wasn't clear.
When he pushed the door open, the classroom lights were flickering. That wasn't unusual; the building was old. But today, something else caught his eye.
A girl. Sitting in the last row. Alone.
That wasn't unusual either. But her presence… felt wrong.
She wasn't on her phone. She wasn't flipping through notes. She was just sitting, straight-backed, eyes half-lidded like she was trying not to fall asleep—but not quite.
He stared too long. She didn't look up.
Zen took a seat two rows ahead, not directly in front of her. But he couldn't help glancing back again.
She was pretty. Not in the overly polished, high-maintenance kind of way. She looked like she belonged somewhere else. Her hair was tied simply. No jewelry. Just a clean white button-up and a blue ribbon tied at the collar. Her posture was too perfect. Her face, too still.
And in her hands… was a folded piece of paper.
A crane.
He blinked. A memory stirred.
In his dream, there'd been something folded. Something small in the corner of the door.
A paper crane?
Before he could make sense of it, Professor Hwan walked in.
"Morning. Take your seats, everyone. Quiz time."
A groan rolled through the class.
Zen swore quietly. He hadn't studied. At all.
He looked down at the desk. A test paper had been placed in front of him. He hadn't seen anyone do it.
No name. Just five questions printed in faded black ink.
He read the first one.
> What does the number 011 represent?
He blinked. The second question:
> When did you first notice the girl?
Zen looked up.
She was gone.
No one in the seat. No crane. Nothing.
The chair wasn't even pulled out anymore.
He glanced around. No one else reacted.
He looked down again.
The paper was gone.
"Zen."
He looked up.
Professor Hwan raised an eyebrow. "You good?"
Zen forced a nod. "Yeah. Just… zoned out."
"Stay awake."
Zen nodded again.
But something in him said: You're still dreaming.
To be continue...