A dream, 30 October 2026

The pub is empty, but the air is thick with the smell of stale beer and wet wool. I am standing at the bar, which is not a bar but a long, green lawn that stretches out into a shadow I cannot trace back to a tree. The shadows are sharp, cutting across the grass like black wire.

A glass sits in front of me. It is full of liquid that is not amber, but the exact shade of a bruise. The headline on the wall behind the barkeeper reads Last drinks called, but the letters are peeling off, curling into the humid air like dead leaves. I reach for the glass, but my hand passes through the membrane of the bar top. I am not here to drink. I am here to count the steps to the exit, but the exit is a door that only opens when you stop looking at it.

The number on the menu is missing. Just a blank white space where the price should be. I realise I am the one being demolished, not the building. The walls are starting to crumble into dust, settling on my shoulders like grey snow. I try to speak, but my voice comes out as a long, low shadow stretching across the bright green grass.