Have you ever found yourself adrift, as though reality had thinned to a fragile thread? When the ground beneath your feet feels unsteady and the air around you seems to hum with something otherworldly? What do you do when time itself slips away, leaving behind a hollow space no one else can see or understand? How do you reconcile the truth of your own experience when it vanishes before the eyes of others?
Three friends, Mark, Aaron, and Julia, arrived early, snowboards packed and excitement high. Their plan was simple: a day in the mountains, carving through fresh snow and soaking up the winter chill. When they reached the summit parking area, they saw a massive rock collapse blocking the space. A detour sign redirected them to a sprawling gravel lot a few miles away. The lot was quiet and unremarkable. They parked the truck and boarded the tram, eager to get to the slopes.
The day unfolded just as it should. The slopes were pristine, the air crisp, and laughter followed them with every descent. By mid-afternoon, they gathered at the lodge. The fire crackled, and the smell of hot cocoa mingled with the chatter of other skiers. The group settled into a corner, sharing stories about their runs and warming frozen fingers.
An older woman approached their table, her movements unhurried but purposeful. She asked if she could sit, gesturing to the crowded lodge. They nodded, and she joined them. Her demeanor was calm, her conversation pleasant, but there was something in the way her eyes lingered on each of them, as though she was searching for something.
After a while, she stood, gathering her coat and scarf. Her children, who had been out on the slopes, appeared and waited for her by the door. She smiled, a small and knowing gesture, before walking away. The friends watched as the trio disappeared into the snowstorm. The moment her figure faded into the white haze, the world seemed to shift.
The fire’s warmth vanished. The murmur of voices faded into silence. Gravel crunched beneath boots, and the chill of the night wrapped around them like a suffocating blanket. One moment they had been in the lodge, and the next, they were standing in the parking lot.
Not the sprawling detour lot they had used earlier, but the original summit lot—the one that had been closed off that morning. The air was heavy with silence, the kind that presses into ears and settles deep in the chest. The truck sat nearby, its headlights casting long shadows that stretched across the snow-covered ground.
“This isn’t where we parked,” Mark said, his voice trembling.
“It’s the summit lot,” Julia replied, confused. “But it couldn’t be… it was closed.”
They turned, scanning the lot. The detour signs were gone. The empty lot stretched before them, its stark familiarity made strange by the sense of intrusion. No one else was around. The once-crowded slopes now lay eerily still, their snowy expanse untouched.
“Why can’t I remember leaving the lodge?” Julia asked, breaking the silence. “How did we get down here?”
No one seemed to know.
Later, back home, they tried to make sense of it all. They poured over maps and scoured their memories, each detail scrutinized and debated. The detour lot didn’t appear in any searches, as though it had never existed. Every attempt to locate it came up blank—no maps, no mentions, nothing. It was as though their memories of the gravel expanse had been fabricated.
The summit lot, which they had seen blocked by a massive rockslide earlier that day, showed no signs of any disturbance. Local news records and photos from earlier in the week bore no mention of the collapse.
“We didn’t imagine it,” Aaron muttered, scrolling through his phone. His voice held a quiet frustration, a desperate need to anchor their experience to something tangible.
Mark rubbed his temples. “It’s like the lot just… shifted out of existence. And us with it.”
Julia stared out the window, her reflection pale against the glass. “Maybe we weren’t supposed to notice. Maybe we weren’t supposed to be there at all.”
