ECHOES BEYOND THE DOOR || Hisoka X OC

002 || Plunge into the Unknown

She stood there, caught in the lingering silence left by the mysterious figure's departure, feeling strangely... at peace. This calm wasn't something she'd ever experienced before—solid, unwavering, like a protective barrier surrounding her thoughts. It was unsettling in a way she couldn't quite define, like a numbness spreading through her mind, muffling the natural urge to panic.

Normally, her thoughts would be racing, desperate for logic or answers, even an escape. But here, in this endless hall with its doors stretching on forever, there was only a strange ease, wrapping around her like an old, familiar blanket. Her heart beat in steady rhythm, adding to the odd sense of control, yet... part of her missed the void.

The void—the deep, consuming blackness—had held her in a way nothing else could. There, she didn't need to think or choose. In the void, there was no shape, no expectations. Just pure, weightless existence. Here, the doors seemed to pulse with lives waiting to be lived, worlds urging her to step in. Yet, all of it felt premature, like they weren't meant for her... not yet.

She thought of the figure's words—not until you're ready to carry what lies beyond. And though she couldn't fully grasp what that meant, something in her gut told her she needed to wait. Something else was coming, or perhaps someone... she didn't know. But the feeling grounded her, keeping her from reaching for the doors, even as she felt drawn to the unknowns they promised.

Her gaze wandered along the row of doors until one, slightly separated from the others, caught her eye. It was plain, almost featureless, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. As she stepped toward it, a familiar chill settled over her, one she recognized. This door felt like the void. Her hand touched the cool surface, feeling a pulse beneath it, like the heartbeat of a long-lost friend.

Without fully understanding why, she pushed the door open.

Darkness spilled out, swallowing the faint glow of the hall. It wasn't threatening, though; it was welcoming, wrapping around her with familiar, comforting silence. She stepped inside, and once again, there was nothing—no walls, no floor, no self. Just the gentle, all-encompassing calm of nothingness. Here, she could simply exist, untethered, free from the pressures that lingered in the hallway of doors.

It became her sanctuary. She found herself returning to it whenever she felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down. When the questions grew too loud, or the burden of waiting became too much, she'd retreat to this room, dissolving into the emptiness, allowing herself to drift in a calm, timeless state. It was here that she felt whole, where the pull of the other doors faded, and the itch of waiting was soothed.

And always, when she was ready, she could step back into the hallway, facing the rows of doors once more. Some days, the pull toward them grew strong, her fingers hovering over handles, wondering what waited on the other side. But then, the figure's words would come back to her, reminding her she had to wait until something—she didn't know what—revealed itself.

So, she continued on, each time returning to the quiet of her void room, drawn back to its silence, until the moment came when she knew it was time to open a door.

In the empty room, where she usually found calm and escape from the heaviness of the hallway, she drifted in a weightless peace, her thoughts floating away like mist. It was here, in the void, that pieces of her old life sometimes surfaced—fragments that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. She remembered moments: the hum of city noise through her window, the quiet comfort of a small, cluttered apartment, the warmth of an old leather jacket. But her face, her name... those details slipped through her mind, as if they belonged to someone else.

Sometimes, she wondered who she had been. The faint images she grasped felt more like dreams than memories, scattered and unclear. She could recall shadows of a life, but no shape or reason, only lingering traces of emotions—quiet mornings, solitude, the taste of coffee gone cold. She tried to hold onto them, but they drifted, slipping from her grasp like sand. Even her own name, the thing that should have grounded her, was gone, lost somewhere in the folds of time and memory.