the room at the end of time looks like every waiting room ever built. faded magazines from years that never existed. carpet worn thin by pacing feet. fluorescent lights that flicker morse code messages to no one.
i recognize the girls in the corner. the sisters from down the street. every summer we terrorized them with water balloons, mean nicknames, endless teasing. thought it was hilarious then. small things echo loud here at the end. they won't look at me now.
the man by the window - i shared my soup with him once. he was shivering at a bus stop, hands shaking. i never knew his name. he smiles, remembers. kindness echoes too.
time doesn't move here. the clock on the wall spins random numbers, gives up, starts again. we're all waiting for something. or someone. or maybe just waiting.
my old maths teacher sits scratching equations into empty air. i cheated on her final exam one year. she knows now. everything's known here. no secrets survive the end of time.
the receptionist types without pause. she has my file open, and everyone else's too. each keystroke writes and rewrites our stories. nothing here stays deleted.
new people arrive. old hurts, small kindnesses. kids i mocked for being fat. kids who mocked me. shopowners i stole from when i had no money. my sister, the nights i stood between her and the storm. the woman i bought groceries for when her card declined. three people still here, though they don't know why. all these moments, tiny waves in time's ocean, washing up here at the end.
we can't leave until we figure it out. that's the rule, written in fine print on forms that crumbled ages ago. some people get it quick - a smile, a word, a touch. others sit for eternities, pride calcified into stone.
the sisters finally look up. i start to speak but they shake their heads. not yet. maybe not ever. that's okay too. time has no deadline here.
my maths teacher hands me her magazine. it's blank except for one question, still unanswered. we both know it's not about maths.
the soup man brings bowls for everyone. they taste like forgiveness, like childhood kitchens, like chances. we eat together in silence.
outside the window, reality winds down. stars sputter and fade. entropy claims its final victory. but in here, we're still working things out. still connecting dots. still finding the threads that bound us all along.
the receptionist types our names. deletes them. types them again. waiting for us to understand what we already know.
that it was never about the water balloons or test scores or stolen food. it was about the ripples we made in each other's lives. the waves we never saw coming back to shore.
i walk over to the sisters. we talk about summer days and water balloons, about laughter that cut like glass. about being young and cruel and sorry. really sorry. they smile, finally. share their soup with me.
my math teacher nods, tears up her magazine. the soup man fills our bowls one last time.
i think i get it now.
the fluorescent lights steady. the clock finds its rhythm. the receptionist nods, just once.
time to move on.