My feet impatiently tap on the thick velvet carpet. I vaguely feel I’m supposed to be somewhere, anywhere but here, stuck in this cramped space with strangers.

I check my wristwatch. Its hands read 3:17 pm.

Chiming along in the background is the tune of elevator music. It underscores the awkward foot shuffling, throat clearing, and uncomfortable breathing noises plaguing the space. I can’t help the audible grumble that escapes my lips.

Once my watch displays ten monotonous minutes have passed, I’m about to loudly announce that the elevator is dysfunctional, and we should call for outside help when it comes to a stop. The doors ding open, to reveal a mystifying scene.

I’m staring at a living room.

It’s furnished with three sofas surrounding a coffee table upon a rug. Bookshelves line the wall, placed beside a television, its screen lit up with colourful cartoons. On the hardwood floor, there lies a dog, that turns its head in our direction and starts barking. Then a little boy peeks his round eyes from the top of one sofa facing away from us. His lips part wide as he mouths, “M-mom?”

A woman in the elevator holds a trembling hand to her mouth, stumbles out into the room, and scoops the boy up in her arms. Both shed tears as they embrace each other. Then the elevator doors shut, just like that.

Stumped by what I just witnessed; my eyes dart across to notice that nobody else appears fazed.

Sometime later, the elevator doors open to a grassy meadow of endlessly rolling hills and buzzing insects, peppered with flowers. Here a couple skips out together hand in hand, laughing into the idyllic sunset.

The doors close.

Each time the doors whir open, it’s to a new place: outside the grandiose gates of an opulent mansion, a cosy shack by a sandy island beach, a sprawling forest treehouse where tinkling fairies dart about, and more puzzling scenes.

As more individuals step out to their destination, the elevator gradually empties out, until it’s just me and an elderly lady inside.

The doors slide apart, revealing a cabin by a gleaming lake. On the front porch sits an old man in a rocking chair, with a cup of coffee warming his hands. The woman begins to hobble out, and I know this is her stop.

Before leaving, she turns to look back at me.

“Don’t you fret dear, I’m sure you’ll get to your destination soon,” she says, with a reassuring pat on my shoulder before she exits.

The doors shut and I am left alone.

Hours later, the elevator continues its endless descent.

For some reason, I’ve progressively wiped more sweat off my brow from the stifling heat inside this narrow space.

Eventually, it starts feeling like I’m inside a furnace. Whenever I brush my hands against the metal walls, my fingers come back with red burn marks.

For some reason, the further down I go, the hotter it gets.