The Fourth Floor That Isn't There

I have worked in the same seven-storey office building for four years. Marketing is on three, accounting on four. The elevator takes about four seconds between floors; everyone who works here has that rhythm in their bones.

In November I rode up alone from the lobby, pressed four, and the elevator stopped one beat too early. The doors opened onto a floor I had never seen. Same carpet pattern as ours but in green, a reception desk with a switched-on lamp, rows of monitors glowing behind frosted glass, and that white-noise hum of a working office. No people anywhere in sight, though every desk looked ten seconds abandoned: chairs half-turned, a jacket over one armrest, a screensaver blooming and dying on the nearest monitor. The indicator above the door showed nothing at all — not three, not four, just an unlit panel.

I did not step out. I want to say it was good instincts but honestly my legs simply refused. The doors closed on their own and delivered me to four, which took — I checked my phone timer out of some reflex — eleven seconds instead of four.