Fred stepped through the door — and for a moment, he believed it was all over.
The warm light disappeared, and he found himself back in his office. His desk. His chair. The screen staring at him expectantly, as though nothing had happened. Everything was exactly as it was supposed to be.
Almost.
Fred let his gaze wander through the room. The files were stacked neatly, the clock on the wall ticked steadily, and outside the window the day continued as usual. A perfectly normal morning.
Then he saw the telephone.
It stood in the middle of his desk. Black. Old-fashioned. Immaculate. Fred knew immediately that it did not belong there. Not because he recognized it — but because it felt as though it had been waiting for him all along.
“No,” he murmured quietly. Not angrily. Just tired.
The telephone began to ring. The sound cut cleanly through the room, too present to ignore. Fred stood still for a moment. He felt no fear anymore, no rush of adrenaline. Only that strange feeling you get when you realize you have been expecting something for a long time.
Slowly, he walked over to the desk and picked up the receiver.
“Fred Müller,” said the voice. Calm. Unchanged.
“Welcome back to the labyrinth.”
Fred closed his eyes for a moment. Then he exhaled.
“Interesting,” he finally said. “So the door was just... a shortcut.”
The voice did not answer immediately. Perhaps it didn't need to.
Fred sat down in his chair. The screen in front of him flickered briefly and displayed a blank interface, a new document. No heading. No form number. Not yet.
“Well, now I know,” Fred said calmly into the receiver. “I thought I was out.”
He slowly placed the receiver back down. The telephone fell silent.
Fred leaned back and stared at the screen. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment.
“All right,” he muttered. “Looks like we're starting from the beginning.”
The clock on the wall continued ticking.
And somewhere, very quietly, the telephone began to ring again.