He awoke with a jolt, breath shallow, heart pounding. The air was thick, sour with mildew and something older: decay. A single bulb dangled overhead swaying slightly, casting erratic shadows across the rotting walls. He found himself in a chair. Bound? No. Just heavy, like the chair itself was holding him down. 

“Now now,” a woman’s voice cooed from the darkness, smooth and ancient. “You’ve done enough of that already.” 

He blinked, trying to locate her. The room offered little—peeling wallpaper, warped floorboards, and a door that looked more like a memory than an exit. 

“Where am I?” he rasped. 

She ignored the question. “Millions have sat where you sit now. Dazed like you, confused like you… Full of questions, just like you.” She teased from the distance. “None of them left.” 

He swallowed hard. “What do you mean?” 

She stepped closer, still cloaked in shadow. “They all came with regrets, such like you. Shall we begin?” 

He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t obey. The chair creaked, almost laughing. Not in mockery, but more a sorrowful howl. 

“You never asked out your high school crush. Remember her? The way she smiled at you in chemistry class? You told yourself you’d do it tomorrow. But tomorrow never came.” 

His mouth went dry. 

“You let your wife walk out the door. She begged for your attention, pleaded for your time. But work was more important. Deadlines. Promotions. You didn’t even chase her.” 

He clenched his fists. “How do you know that?” 

She continued, undeterred. “Your parents waited for you. Holidays came and went. You always meant to visit. But life got in the way. Until it didn’t. Until they were gone.” 

“Stop,” he whispered. 

“Do you know what all of these things have in common?” she asked, voice now closer, colder. 

He cut her off, voice trembling. “…Time.” 

Silence. 

The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps fills the room. She emerged from the shadows, her face finally catching the light. Pale. Ageless. Eyes like deep wells of memory. Her smile was not cruel; it was not welcoming… just inevitable. 

“Yes, child,” she said softly. “Time. And you’re out of it.” 

The lightbulb flickered once. 

“No, please,” he pleaded. 

The lightbulb flickered twice. 

“Give me more,” he shouted. “I never had enough!” 

“Oh, dear child,” she spoke once more. “I give and I give, but no one wants to take, until I stop giving.” 

The lightbulb plays its final flicker, then goes out.