Day 483

Sometimes a house was there and other times it was a bridge.
Either way the stairs leading up to it were always empty bar one man.
I thought he lived there before I'd dared to go and speak to him.
If I had known what would happen I would have left the city entirely.

I remember the day I walked up the stairs - it was a house then.
All worn, windows boarded up and paint as grey as the cloudy sky
He seemed so surprised - horrified more like, now that I think about it.
Never said a word though, only stepped aside and opened the door for me.

It's one of those ones that can only be opened from the outside, as I found out too late.
There is no sunlight in here, no clocks, no hunger nor need for sleep.
I'm not alone at least, there are five or so others though it's hard to tell.
Sometimes they are there and other times they seem to seep into the shadows.

I've tried to join them only to find myself unable to.
The only one that will talk to me (an elderly woman who came in the early 1900's for tea)
has said that I shouldn't join them, that I should focus on getting out.
She doesn't understand that it's impossible, she's forgotten that.

I'm starting to forget that too.
Some days I find myself staring at the door, hand trying to turn it open endlessly.
I've taken to writing on the walls, alongside what looks to be hundreds of others.
It can only mean that either this won't help me remember or I'll be stopped before I can f