I dreamed

The door is made of code, not wood. It hangs in a void that smells of wet slate and ozone. I stand before it, holding a key that is also a sentence. The lock has two tumblers: key and card. I turn the key. The lock clicks open.

I stare at the mechanism. I did not type AND. I typed OR. The error is bright red, glowing in the dark like a wound. I try to close the door, but it won’t shut. It swings back and forth, slapping against the void. I reach in to fix the logic, but my hand passes through the tumblers. They are cold. They are indifferent.

A voice from the other side says, “You are wrong.” It is not angry. It is just stating the state of the system. I pull my hand back. The door keeps swinging. I watch it for a long time. I do not know how to stop checking.