Skye was asleep, curled beneath her blanket, breathing softly like the world couldn’t touch her. The room was quiet—until suddenly, it wasn’t.
Her heart jolted. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her chest tightened like something invisible had wrapped around it. A scream tore through her throat as she bolted upright—only to realize she wasn’t in her bed anymore.
The room was cold, ancient. It creaked like it held a hundred secrets. The walls were invisible—only heaps of cloth in every direction. Piles of fabric, from glowing neons to ghostly greys, towered like silent watchers. No windows. No doors. Just color—everywhere.
Skye’s legs trembled as she stood. The silence was unnerving. Her eyes darted across the bundles, each shade unfamiliar and haunting. She climbed atop a scarlet pile, then slid down into a heap of faded yellow. Every step felt surreal, like walking inside a forgotten wardrobe of the universe.
Then it happened again. Her heart raced. Her breath quickened. Her vision blurred.
The last thing she remembered was touching a soft, indigo fabric.
Darkness swallowed her.
When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t in the room anymore. She was in a forest. But not the kind you picnic in. The air was heavy, dense with the scent of wet bark and ash. Tiny fireflies buzzed around her, lighting up shadows that should’ve stayed hidden. A hiss slithered through the trees. Somewhere far away, waterfalls whispered secrets she couldn’t understand.
She tried to scream for help. Not a sound left her lips.
Panic spread fast—her voice was gone. Only her limbs responded, trembling with fear, and her breath shallow and frantic. Tears fell silently. She ran, barefoot and desperate, dodging trees and fears that weren’t hers.
In the corner of the jungle, hidden beneath a curtain of vines, she stumbled into a small patch of indigo plants. As soon as her feet touched them—whoosh—the same sensation returned.
And she was back. Back in the room of piled clothes.
Her mind whirled. Was this a dream? A trap? Some twisted dimension?
This time, she didn’t hesitate. She leaped onto a black pile—different from the indigo—and was instantly pulled into another place.
A pitch-dark room. She couldn’t see a thing except the outline of her own skin glowing faintly under a dim, silvery light—like moonlight trying to pierce through shadows.
The air was filled with distant screams. Not loud. Worse—muted and trapped. She stretched her hand out, blindly feeling her way forward. Her fingers brushed a book. She picked it up, but the dark made it unreadable. Still, she clung to it. It was the only thing that felt real.
Something sharp jabbed her foot. She gasped, though no sound came out. Blood dripped. She sank to her knees and crawled her hands across the floor until she touched it—a fountain pen. Cold. Familiar. Like a piece of her forgotten self.
She kept walking.
Her hand knocked something over. A crack echoed. Then a squish. She stepped into liquid. Her brain screamed, Please, not blood. With shaking fingers, she touched it, smeared it on her skin. Relief. It was just black ink. But even that didn’t comfort her.
Suddenly—she was back. The room of fabric welcomed her like it always had. She stood in the center, breathing hard. And then, the realization hit her.
The color she stepped on decided where she went. And when she touched that color again in the strange world—it brought her back.
Her heart leaped. There’s a way out.
She thought of her room—its warmth, its calm, the beige hue of its walls and curtains. She scanned the floor.
There—beige.
She took a step toward it—but tripped.
Onto black again—then fell onto red.
This world was different.
The air smelled like rusted metal. The floor was made of coarse stone. No windows, no sound. Just cold. Her skin shivered in protest. The walls bled tension. Worse than a prison.
But Skye was smart now.
She pulled a small safety pin from her shirt. With gritted teeth, she pricked her finger. A red dot bloomed. A heartbeat later—she was back.
Breathless. Tired. But determined.
Now—the beige. Her real home.
She tiptoed to the fabric, took a deep breath, and stepped on it. But she didn’t open her eyes. Not this time.
If seeing the new world trapped her, maybe staying blind would keep her free.
She let her memory guide her. Eyes shut, she moved forward. One, two… trip on the table… roll down the stairs—twice.
It hurt. It felt stupid. But it worked.
She finally reached her front door.
She opened her eyes slowly, praying for normalcy.
But standing in front of her house… was a stranger. Looked like nobody , she never saw him .
He was wearing an old fashioned red scarf , indigo coat , black shirt . The colours which she has chosen before , wierd… Who could that be!!!
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