I dropped the dream like a hot coal. Burned my fingers quite nicely when I was holding onto it, anyway. Now it was just a faint scorch mark in the back of my head, a reminder not to be so... optimistic. Optimistic was a luxury we couldn't afford in this endless, dark purgatory we called a room.

Who was the woman? Why was she so crude, so angry? There had to be some reason, right? Something about it felt wrong. Nobody would be so angry without a reason. Right?

I had no reason of seeing such a bizarre dream. But maybe after days of no memory and being locked in a place like that, imagining such stuff makes sense. Wait, how many days had it been?

At least four days, maybe five. Time was a slippery eel here, wriggling through your fingers the moment you tried to grasp it. I'd stopped bothering to count, much like I'd stopped bothering to anticipate Rayer's visits. Predictability was another extinct species in our room.

Lalita, bless her perpetually rumbling stomach, hadn't stopped anticipating anything, least of all food. Her constant, low-grade hum of "hungry, hungry, hungry" was like a broken record stuck on repeat. I'd started actively avoiding her. Not out of malice, mind you. It was pure self-preservation. Being around Lalita when she was in her 'hungry' mode was like being trapped in a perpetual infomercial for digestion.

Survival mechanisms come in all flavours, I suppose. Hers was glazed with a saccharine longing for something beyond the nutrient paste they dispensed from the wall.

Besides, her hunger there was the horrible fishy stench.

I'd taken to pacing, a nervous tiger in a cage, mapping and re-mapping every inch of this room which was supposed to be 'endless' alongside those rectangles. Endless, my foot.

It was finitely depressing, finitely bland, and finitely irritating. And then, during one of these aimless expeditions - fuelled more by boredom-induced restlessness than actual purpose - I stumbled upon it.

A door.

Wooden, surprisingly, with a tarnished brass handle, tucked away in what I was quite certain was just a blank stretch of wall yesterday. Unless, of course, the beige walls had decided to redecorate themselves in my absence. Which, given their utter lack of imagination, seemed highly unlikely.

Dust danced in the still air around it, thick as ghosts in a haunted house. Cobwebs, intricate and unsettlingly beautiful in their decay, draped themselves across the frame like macabre lace. A hidden room in our 'endless' room. The sheer audacity of it was breathtaking. Our lives were orchestrated down to the millisecond, every breath dictated, and yet, a hidden room? The irony was almost delicious enough to rival Lalita's phantom banquets.

Naturally, my first thought was, 'locked.' Everything here was locked. But something, a flicker of rebellious hope or maybe just plain old curiosity urged me forward. Maybe this room had my story? I reached out and grasped the handle and... it turned. Just like that.

It swung inward, unexpectedly light, revealing not a labyrinth, not a portal to another dimension (though frankly, anything would have been an improvement on this place) but a small, square chamber. The room was cluttered with what looked like forgotten artifacts. Jumbled furniture draped in cloths, stacks of papers yellowed with time, and in the centre, on a small, rickety table, a book.

It wasn't just any book. Its cover was plain, unmarked, a dark, leathery material that looked as old as the dust itself. No title, no author, just... book. It called to me, a silent siren song in the suffocating silence of the Endless Room.

Drawn by an invisible thread, I reached for it. My fingers were inches away when the air shimmered, warped, and solidified into a figure. A man. He was tall, gaunt, his features sharp and etched with a burning intensity. His eyes, like molten gold, fixed on me with an unnerving ferocity.

He wore clothing as colourless and drab as the Endless Room itself, but there was an intensity about him that was anything but positive.

He didn't speak, just lunged forward, shoving me back with surprising force. "Stay away from it," he hissed.

"Away from what?" I retorted, scrambling back to my feet. Wit, my trusty shield and weapon, flared to life. "The obvious book? Hardly tempting."

He ignored the jab, his gaze fixed on the book. He tried to push me back again, but I stood my ground. This was too interesting, too... something, to back down now. "What is that thing?" I demanded, pointing at the book.

He growled, a low, guttural sound that vibrated in the confined space. "It's not for you."

"Oh, really? And what, precisely, is for me in Histoire?" I sidestepped him, trying to get closer to the table. He moved with surprising speed, blocking my path again.

This was getting tedious. And strangely exciting. I'd forgotten what excitement felt like, buried under layers of manufactured calm and beige conformity. Fuelled by a sudden surge of something akin to defiance, I lunged.

He was ready for me, faster than I'd anticipated. He raised his hand, and a flicker of orange light erupted from his palm. Fire. Real, actual fire. In the Endless Room. Where everything was supposed to be sterile and safe and utterly, utterly beige.

He aimed the small flame at me, a burning threat in the dim room. I flinched, a reflex ingrained from countless sanitization protocols and safety drills. But then... nothing. The flame flickered against my arm, danced over my skin, and then... died. Like a frustrated sparkler giving up on its purpose.

I stared at my arm, then back at the man. He looked as shocked as I was, his fiery eyes widening almost imperceptibly. He tried again, another burst of flame, larger this time. It licked at my clothes, hissed and sputtered, and then... vanished. Leaving no mark, no heat, nothing.

"What is happening...?" he muttered, his voice laced with bewildered anger.

"Seems fire doesn't agree with me," I said, a slow grin spreading across my face. "Or maybe, it's you who doesn't agree with me." The absurdity of the situation was starting to bubble up inside me, threatening to spill over into laughter. Fire, in the Endless Room, wielded by a man, failing to incinerate me. It was almost comical.

He was still trying, his frustration escalating with each failed attempt to burn me to a crisp. He conjured larger flames, brighter flames, even a swirling vortex of fire that roared harmlessly around me.

Ignoring his increasingly frantic pyrotechnics, I pushed past him, my focus fixed on the book. He tried to grab me, to pull me back, but I was surprisingly nimble, dodging his clumsy attempts. I pushed, shoved, ducked under his flailing arms, my eyes fixed on my prize. He was weakening, his movements becoming less coordinated, his shadowy form seeming to flicker more erratically. He was losing his grip, his substance, his very being.

With a final surge of adrenaline, I broke free, lunged across the remaining distance, and snatched the book.

Finally, I reached the table. My fingers closed around the book, the cool leather smooth and strangely comforting beneath my touch. As soon as my hand grasped it, the man... dissolved. Not dramatically, no cinematic fade-out, just... gone.

The room felt... different now. Lighter, somehow, despite the lingering dust and shadows. The silence was still heavy, but it was a different kind of silence, a waiting silence. I clutched the book to my chest, a strange sense of triumph and bewilderment swirling within me.

Outside the hidden room, the endless Room stretched, unchanging. Lalita was probably still pondering the existential angst of an empty stomach. Rayer was still absent. But something had shifted. Something had cracked open in the sterile monotony of my existence.

I sat down, the book heavy in my lap. I turned it over, examined it from every angle. Still blank. No title, no author, no markings whatsoever. Disappointment pricked at me. Had I risked incineration (or whatever that pathetic fire show was supposed to be) for a glorified empty journal?

Then, I saw it. Etched subtly into the inside of the front cover, almost invisible against the dark leather. A single line, in elegant, faded script.

"To rewrite is to remember."

I stared at the words, the simple phrase resonating deep within me. Rewrite? Remember? Rewrite what? Remember what? The dropped dream flickered at the edge of my awareness. Did I need to remember myself? Did I need to rewrite that? Or did I need to remember my dream? Was that what needed rewriting? Was that what I needed to remember?

Just as the questions began to spiral in my mind, a familiar voice echoed from the entrance to the hidden room.

"Fragment? Fragment, where are you?"

Rayer. His voice was laced with a carefully constructed concern that always felt... performative. He stepped into the room, his usual placid expression shifting into what he probably thought was surprise, but to me, just looked like forced theatrics. He took in the dust, the cobwebs, the disarray, and finally, his eyes landed on me and the book clutched in my hands.

His carefully crafted mask of concern cracked. A flicker of something else, something sharp and cold, flashed in his eyes before he masked it again with practiced ease. "Ira! What have you done? You shouldn't be in here. This room is... forbidden."

"Forbidden?" I echoed, my voice hoarse, but stronger than it had been in days. I clutched the book tighter. "Why?"

He approached slowly, cautiously, his eyes never leaving the book. "This... this is a cursed place. This room... it holds things best left undisturbed. And that book..." He hesitated, his voice dropping to a low, ominous whisper. "That book is cursed, Ira. It will bring nothing but sorrow. Put it down. Please."

Cursed. The word hung in the dusty air, heavy and ominous. But inside me, something else was stirring. Suspicion. Not fear, but a cold, sharp suspicion that pricked at the carefully constructed narrative Rayer had always spun.

"Cursed?" I repeated, my voice gaining strength. "Or... is it something you don't want us to know?" I looked him straight in the eye, the blank book held tight against my chest. "What is it, Rayer? What are you hiding?"

He tried to reach for the book, his hand outstretched, his face etched with a desperate urgency. "Ira, please. Don't be foolish. Some things are better left buried. This book... it's dangerous. Give it to me. Let me... dispose of it."

Dispose of it. The words echoed in my mind, raising alarms. If it was just cursed, why the desperation? Why the fear in his carefully controlled eyes? No, this wasn't just a cursed object. It was something more. Something he desperately wanted to keep hidden. Something that maybe... just maybe... was the key to everything.

I stepped back, away from his outstretched hand, away from his practiced concern. "No," I said, my voice firm, resolute, a strength I hadn't known I possessed bubbling to the surface. "I don't think it's cursed at all, Rayer. I think... I think this book is the only thing that can save us."

His face hardened, the mask of concern finally dissolving completely, replaced by a cold, calculating look that sent a shiver down my spine, a shiver that wasn't entirely fear. It was the shiver of recognition. Recognition that beneath the placid caretaker, beneath the carefully constructed lies, lay something else entirely. Something he didn't want us to remember. Something this blank book, with its single, cryptic line, might help us rewrite.

That's when his riddle raked my brain. What is the name of the page that doesn't exist?