Fred stood at the end of the invisible queue and felt time slowly turning into chewing gum stuck between his teeth. The minutes stretched endlessly, as though they themselves were not entirely sure what they were doing here. The Queue Supervisor stood like a human grandfather clock, waiting only to move the hands toward “too late.” Her eyes remained fixed on Fred, as though he were moments away from crossing an invisible line that only she could see.
“I'm the only customer in this place, and I still have to wait?” Fred thought as he shifted from one foot to the other. “Maybe I should just report myself — for the crime of being too punctual.”
Time, however it worked in this place, continued to flow, albeit slowly and reluctantly. Finally, just as Fred was certain he had broken the world record for pointless standing around, the supervisor raised her bony hand and pointed toward a door that had suddenly appeared in front of him.
“It is your turn,” she said, as though she had just invited him to an exclusive club for record-breaking waiters.
Fred approached the door that had appeared so suddenly and opened it hesitantly. Behind it was a room so empty that he wondered whether someone had simply forgotten to install reality. A desk stood alone in the center, flanked by shelves filled with files that carried no titles, as though they had long since forgotten their purpose. On the wall hung a picture — a single gray blotch on a white canvas that looked as though someone had given up before they had even started.
Behind the desk sat a figure wrapped in gray cloth that looked as though it had drained all the color from the air.
“Sit down,” the figure ordered, its voice sounding as though the words had already been spoken a thousand times.
Fred dropped into the chair, which released an exhausted creak beneath his weight.
“Let me guess,” he said with a mixture of resignation and curiosity. “I'm here to fill out another pointless form?”
The figure nodded, and Fred was certain he detected a brief twitch beneath the cloth — as though the thought of torturing him with more paperwork brought the figure a small amount of joy.
A stack of papers appeared in front of him so suddenly that Fred nearly recoiled.
“Form for Confirmation of Your Existence in This Reality,” was written neatly across the top sheet.
“Confirmation of existence?” Fred frowned. “Is this some kind of metaphysical bureaucracy? Where do I sign up to refuse existence?”
He reached for the pen resting in his hand like an unspoken question and raised it to begin writing. But before he could put the first words on paper, his gaze caught on the picture hanging on the wall — a gray blotch that was about as meaningful as the silence before a bad joke.
“What happens if I don't fill this out?” Fred asked. His voice now carried more playful curiosity than genuine interest. What could possibly be worse than a life trapped inside forms?
The figure raised its head, and although its eyes were hidden behind the cloth, Fred could feel them piercing straight through him.
“Then you remain here. Forever.”
A cold shiver ran down Fred's spine, but instead of being intimidated, he could not suppress a crooked grin.
“Forever, huh? Sounds like the best offer of the day.”
He put the pen to the paper, and the words flowed from him like a form of involuntary therapy. Every line felt as though he were peeling away another layer of the absurdity surrounding this place.
When he finally finished, Fred pushed the form across the desk. The figure accepted it as though it were the final piece of a long-forgotten puzzle.
“Your existence has been confirmed. You may proceed.”
Fred stood up, but the feeling of emptiness remained, as though the labyrinth had taken more from him than it had given back. He turned toward the door, which looked like a gateway into the next riddle of this Kafkaesque world.
But before he could open it, the figure spoke again.
“One moment.”
Its voice now sounded more thoughtful, as though it had suddenly become aware of its own significance.
“There is one final question you must answer.”
Fred turned around. His eyes fixed upon the figure, which now seemed to radiate an almost unsettling presence.
“And what would that be?”
His voice sounded sharper now, as though he wanted not merely to hear the answer but to force it out of the figure.
The figure leaned forward. Although its eyes remained hidden behind the cloth, Fred felt as though it were looking directly into his soul — deeper than he had ever dared to look himself.
“Why are you here, Fred Müller? What are you really looking for?”
The question hung heavily in the air, as though it carried more weight than everything Fred had experienced so far. He felt a cold hand closing around his heart as he struggled to find an answer — but nothing came.
Before he could even begin to formulate a response, the door behind him opened with a creak that sounded almost like a crooked laugh. An invisible force pulled him into the next corridor, as though the labyrinth had decided that his answer was either too dangerous or too insignificant to be heard.