Confusion. Solitude.
Maddening, The Hall further taunts the lost soul.

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For years I’ve walked this narrow hall alone.
Haven’t seen a copy in ages.
Haven’t seen one alive. Ever.
Stranger that I miss them.
I’ve never stopped walking, though. And now there’s a steel rectangular indent on the wall. Seven by three vertical feet. No handle. Thus I beg the question, can doors exist in this place?
It might have been months or weeks, but I haven’t moved from before this indent. It means something.
It has something.
The wall goes on from where I came and it goes on to where I’m headed. But I’ve never seen an indent. I’ve never seen anything on the wall but the wall.
And copies stacked against it.
Nothing ever happens with the indent no matter how long I wait. Every so often I check it but there’s never any change. I’m torn with whether to stay and wait for however long or continue walking with hopes that other indents will come along.
I sleep against it in case it decides to open while I’m resting.
Don’t always sleep. Not knowing how long I’ve been out drives me mad. No madder than this place. Don’t really even know how long goes by while awake. I dream only of the ambient hum.
It’s been about a year and my muscles haven’t atrophied from the lack of motion. I get up and carry on my way.
Hundreds of miles later…
Another indent.