The Missing Floor - Chapter 5: The Button That Learned My Shape

After Mrs. Calder left, I began avoiding the elevator. I took the stairs whenever possible, even though the stairwell unsettled me in ways I couldn’t properly articulate. Between the sixth and eighth floors, the light buzzed louder, the walls felt closer, and I always hurried through that stretch without knowing why.

Still, avoidance only sharpened my attention.

One evening, returning late, I found myself alone in the elevator despite my better judgement. As the doors closed, my eyes were drawn—against my will—to the space between the 6 and 8 buttons.

It wasn’t empty.

I didn’t notice it at first, not consciously. My thumb hovered there, waiting for the ache of metal beneath my skin. Instead, the surface yielded slightly, like pressing into old rubber or scar tissue.

I pulled my hand back, heart racing.

The indentation remained.

Breathing shallowly, I touched it again. It was warmer than the surrounding steel. There was a faint vibration beneath it, subtle but deliberate, as though something deeper were responding.

I pressed harder.

The elevator stopped so abruptly that the floor seemed to jump. The lights snapped to red. A low groan ran through the car, not mechanical but structural, like the building itself had exhaled.

The number display flickered, then went blank.

When the doors opened, they did so reluctantly, shuddering as if resisting an order they hadn’t received in years. The gap beyond them was narrow, forcing the elevator to reveal what it never should have.

I stepped out.

Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model