There’s a rabbit in the hallway breathing colors through the walls— fur flickering like neon static, eyes tuned to distant calls. He doesn’t hop—he glitches, skipping frames across the floor, rewinding shadows with his whiskers, pacing just outside your door. In his paws—a tape recorder, old, but humming like a hive, spooling out your hidden memories you forgot were still alive. Click. Your laughter, warped and bending— Click. A whisper from your youth— Click. A fight you never finished, spliced and tangled into truth. You run— but corridors grow longer, stretching thin like melted wax, every turn just loops you backward through your own forgotten tracks. The rabbit grins in stereo, his teeth a broken melody, as he presses PLAY with purpose— and your thoughts lose gravity. Now your voice is in the static, layered deep within the hiss, every doubt and dream repeating in a spiraled, endless twist. He gets closer. Closer still. The tape begins to slow and warble— your name dragged through the sound, until the world becomes a waveform and your feet leave off the ground. Then silence. The rabbit stops. Rewinds. And softly asks, “Do you remember who you were— before you pressed record?”
