The tunnel breathes. Alice stands at the entrance, her hand pressed flat against the cool stone wall. It pulses—once, twice—like a heartbeat beneath her palm. She pulls away. Before her, the corridor stretches into darkness, lined with doors. Dozens of them. Some are no taller than her knee, arched and delicate, with handles of tarnished brass. Others loom overhead, their frames carved from dark wood, iron hinges rusted with age. They are all closed. At the center of the tunnel, a single glass table catches the light from an unseen source. On it rests a key—tiny, golden, no larger than her thumb. It glows with a warm, steady pulse, casting a pool of amber light across the polished surface. Alice takes a step forward. Her shoes echo against the stone floor. She reaches the table and picks up the key. It is warm in her hand, as if it has been waiting for her. She turns it over, studying the intricate pattern etched into its surface—a spiral, like a snail's shell, winding inward. "One door," she whispers. "One key." She looks up. The tunnel stretches in both directions. Which door does it open? She walks to the nearest door—a small one, waist-high, painted a faded blue. She kneels and tries the key in the lock. It doesn't fit. She tries another. And another. The key slides into none of them. At the far end of the tunnel, a door stands apart from the others. It is made of pale wood, almost white, and its handle is a simple ring of iron. There are no carvings, no symbols—just a smooth, silent surface. Alice walks toward it. The key grows warmer in her hand. She stops before the door and holds the key up to the lock. It slides in without resistance. A soft click, and the door swings open. Beyond it, there is only darkness. But from that darkness comes a sound—faint, familiar. The ticking of a watch. Alice steps through. The door closes behind her with a whisper. And the tunnel is silent once more.