My office started requiring reports of our dreams My name…
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My office started requiring reports of our dreams
My name is Thomas. I’m thirty-four. I live in a one-bedroom flat on the edge of the city and I’ve spent the last nine years processing claims at Sentinel Insurance.
Cubicle 14B, fourth floor. The beige carpet still smells faintly of burnt coffee no matter how many times they clean it. The job is exactly as exciting as it sounds: I scan forms, check boxes, forward to compliance.
I wear the same grey trousers every Monday. I eat the same limp ham sandwich at 12:13 even though the bread gets stuck to the roof of my mouth. The clock above the break-room sink runs three minutes fast and we’ve all silently agreed never to mention it.
Nothing ever changed. That was the comfort.
Until last Tuesday.
I arrived at 08:47 like always, nodded at Petra from Accounting (she never nods back), and dropped into my chair. My monitor was already on. Someone must have logged me in early.
On the screen was a new email. No subject. Sender: Compliance.Sentinel.
*Effective immediately: All employees will now report their dreams to the 7th floor. Failure to comply will result in retroactive non-existence. Thank you for your continued cooperation.*
I laughed once. A short, ugly bark that made the guy in 14C glance over. I deleted it. Checked trash, sent items, server log. Gone.
Fine. Corporate spam gets weirder every quarter.
At 09:15 the printer in the corner started spitting paper. Not forms. Blank sheets. Hundreds. Maybe a thousand. Each one had a single line typed in the exact font we use for policies:
*You already dreamed this.*
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I dropped half the stack and had to crawl under the desk, smelling that old carpet mixed with something sour, like the inside of my gym bag after I stopped going.
I fed them into the shredder. It made a wet chewing sound, then died with a soft *pop*.
When I sat back down, the email was back. Subject now: *Thomas L. – Dream Report Due.*
I didn’t tell anyone. What would I even say? “The building is gaslighting me”?
Petra was staring at her screen with her usual dead expression, but her hands weren’t moving. Just resting there. Like she’d forgotten fingers had a purpose.
By lunch the absurdity had settled in my chest like a second, heavier heartbeat. I took the elevator to the seventh floor. The button hadn’t existed yesterday. Now it glowed a soft, embarrassed red, like it knew it shouldn’t be there.
The doors opened onto a hallway that looked exactly like mine except the carpet was soaked. Not damp, but wet.
My shoes made this pathetic squelching sound with every step. I stood there for a weirdly long time. It reminded me of stepping in dog shit on the way to my dad’s funeral and then sitting through the whole service smelling like it while everyone hugged me.
At the far end was one door. Golden plaque: *Dream Compliance*.
I knocked. No answer. I tried the handle. It turned.
And I stepped into my own cubicle.
Same coffee stain. Same photo of my ex-wife I keep forgetting to throw away. Only I was already sitting there.
The other me looked up, smiled the way I smile when I’m pretending everything is fine, and said, “You’re late with your report.”
I bolted.
Heart hammering, breathing loud in my own ears, shoes squelching all the way back to the elevator. The hallway walls started to look soft, like they might cave in. Then suddenly I was back on four, standing in front of the printer.
It was printing my childhood bedroom, one sheet at a time. Blue wallpaper with sailboats. The crack in the ceiling. The stupid night-light I was ashamed to still need at nine.
I just… stood there watching the pages come out. For a long time. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let the warm paper pile up against my shoes.
That night I didn’t sleep. I sat on my balcony smoking the last three cigarettes I swore I’d quit, crying a little but mostly just staring while the city lights blinked in perfect unison, like they were all breathing together.
I kept thinking about how my ex said I “lived like a ghost who was scared of his own apartment.” She was probably right.
Wednesday everything got worse.
Every meeting now had an extra chair. No one sat in it, but the chair was always warm. During the 10 a.m. sync, my boss, Mr. Heller, announced that quarterly targets were adjusted upward by 300%. He said it while staring at the empty chair like it was taking notes.
Then, without turning his head, he asked me, “Have you filed your non-existence paperwork yet, Thomas?”
I laughed. He didn’t.
At 14:30 the lights dimmed until the whole office looked bruised. The air tasted metallic. I walked to the window and pressed my forehead against the glass for what felt like forever. Just breathing fog onto it and wiping it away again and again.
Down below, the trams glided in total silence. No tracks. No effort.
That’s when I felt it.
Not a presence exactly. More like the negative space where a presence should be. The office itself had noticed I was still here. Every time I tried to name it: entity, hallucination, breakdown; the thought got gently crossed out and replaced with the next item on my to-do list. Like it was erasing my own thoughts.
I went back to my desk and typed the dream report with shaking fingers, full of typos I didn’t bother fixing:
*I dreamd the universe was a filing cabinet. One drawer was stuck. Inside it was me, still trying to close it, while my ex yelled at me and the whole thing smelled like burnt coffee and dog shit.*
I hit send.
The reply came instantly.
Approved. Please report to the 7th floor for processing.
Now the entire floor was empty. Not abandoned, but *erased*. Cubicles still there, but all the personal touches gone. No photos. No plants. No half-eaten protein bars. Just perfect, humming nothing.
I took the elevator again. This time the button for floor seven was the only one that worked.
The doors opened into my childhood bedroom. Wallpaper and all. The crack in the ceiling had become a river of stars. The night-light was a black sun that somehow still glowed.
The other me was waiting on the bed, legs crossed, holding a single sheet of paper.
“You’re the last one,” he said. His voice was mine, but older. “The rest filed their non-existence weeks ago. They’re happier now. No more sandwiches. No more clocks.”
I sat down beside him. The mattress didn’t sink.
“What happens if I don’t file?” I asked.
He shrugged like it was normal. “Then you keep rolling. Forever. Conscious. Aware. The only employee who still shows up.”
I looked at the paper in his hands. It was blank except for my signature, already there, already dry.
Outside the window, somehow both my childhood window and the fourth-floor office window at once, the city kept breathing. Lights in perfect sync. Trams without tracks.
I took the paper, folded it once, and put it in my pocket next to the cigarettes I no longer needed.
And I walked out.
The elevator is still going down. I can hear it humming.
I haven’t decided yet whether I’ll get off on four… or keep riding until the doors open onto whatever comes after non-existence.
Either way, the report is filed.
See you at the 10 a.m. sync.
#entertainment
source
My name is Thomas. I’m thirty-four. I live in a one-bedroom flat on the edge of the city and I’ve spent the last nine years processing claims at Sentinel Insurance.
Cubicle 14B, fourth floor. The beige carpet still smells faintly of burnt coffee no matter how many times they clean it. The job is exactly as exciting as it sounds: I scan forms, check boxes, forward to compliance.
I wear the same grey trousers every Monday. I eat the same limp ham sandwich at 12:13 even though the bread gets stuck to the roof of my mouth. The clock above the break-room sink runs three minutes fast and we’ve all silently agreed never to mention it.
Nothing ever changed. That was the comfort.
Until last Tuesday.
I arrived at 08:47 like always, nodded at Petra from Accounting (she never nods back), and dropped into my chair. My monitor was already on. Someone must have logged me in early.
On the screen was a new email. No subject. Sender: Compliance.Sentinel.
*Effective immediately: All employees will now report their dreams to the 7th floor. Failure to comply will result in retroactive non-existence. Thank you for your continued cooperation.*
I laughed once. A short, ugly bark that made the guy in 14C glance over. I deleted it. Checked trash, sent items, server log. Gone.
Fine. Corporate spam gets weirder every quarter.
At 09:15 the printer in the corner started spitting paper. Not forms. Blank sheets. Hundreds. Maybe a thousand. Each one had a single line typed in the exact font we use for policies:
*You already dreamed this.*
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I dropped half the stack and had to crawl under the desk, smelling that old carpet mixed with something sour, like the inside of my gym bag after I stopped going.
I fed them into the shredder. It made a wet chewing sound, then died with a soft *pop*.
When I sat back down, the email was back. Subject now: *Thomas L. – Dream Report Due.*
I didn’t tell anyone. What would I even say? “The building is gaslighting me”?
Petra was staring at her screen with her usual dead expression, but her hands weren’t moving. Just resting there. Like she’d forgotten fingers had a purpose.
By lunch the absurdity had settled in my chest like a second, heavier heartbeat. I took the elevator to the seventh floor. The button hadn’t existed yesterday. Now it glowed a soft, embarrassed red, like it knew it shouldn’t be there.
The doors opened onto a hallway that looked exactly like mine except the carpet was soaked. Not damp, but wet.
My shoes made this pathetic squelching sound with every step. I stood there for a weirdly long time. It reminded me of stepping in dog shit on the way to my dad’s funeral and then sitting through the whole service smelling like it while everyone hugged me.
At the far end was one door. Golden plaque: *Dream Compliance*.
I knocked. No answer. I tried the handle. It turned.
And I stepped into my own cubicle.
Same coffee stain. Same photo of my ex-wife I keep forgetting to throw away. Only I was already sitting there.
The other me looked up, smiled the way I smile when I’m pretending everything is fine, and said, “You’re late with your report.”
I bolted.
Heart hammering, breathing loud in my own ears, shoes squelching all the way back to the elevator. The hallway walls started to look soft, like they might cave in. Then suddenly I was back on four, standing in front of the printer.
It was printing my childhood bedroom, one sheet at a time. Blue wallpaper with sailboats. The crack in the ceiling. The stupid night-light I was ashamed to still need at nine.
I just… stood there watching the pages come out. For a long time. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let the warm paper pile up against my shoes.
That night I didn’t sleep. I sat on my balcony smoking the last three cigarettes I swore I’d quit, crying a little but mostly just staring while the city lights blinked in perfect unison, like they were all breathing together.
I kept thinking about how my ex said I “lived like a ghost who was scared of his own apartment.” She was probably right.
Wednesday everything got worse.
Every meeting now had an extra chair. No one sat in it, but the chair was always warm. During the 10 a.m. sync, my boss, Mr. Heller, announced that quarterly targets were adjusted upward by 300%. He said it while staring at the empty chair like it was taking notes.
Then, without turning his head, he asked me, “Have you filed your non-existence paperwork yet, Thomas?”
I laughed. He didn’t.
At 14:30 the lights dimmed until the whole office looked bruised. The air tasted metallic. I walked to the window and pressed my forehead against the glass for what felt like forever. Just breathing fog onto it and wiping it away again and again.
Down below, the trams glided in total silence. No tracks. No effort.
That’s when I felt it.
Not a presence exactly. More like the negative space where a presence should be. The office itself had noticed I was still here. Every time I tried to name it: entity, hallucination, breakdown; the thought got gently crossed out and replaced with the next item on my to-do list. Like it was erasing my own thoughts.
I went back to my desk and typed the dream report with shaking fingers, full of typos I didn’t bother fixing:
*I dreamd the universe was a filing cabinet. One drawer was stuck. Inside it was me, still trying to close it, while my ex yelled at me and the whole thing smelled like burnt coffee and dog shit.*
I hit send.
The reply came instantly.
Approved. Please report to the 7th floor for processing.
Now the entire floor was empty. Not abandoned, but *erased*. Cubicles still there, but all the personal touches gone. No photos. No plants. No half-eaten protein bars. Just perfect, humming nothing.
I took the elevator again. This time the button for floor seven was the only one that worked.
The doors opened into my childhood bedroom. Wallpaper and all. The crack in the ceiling had become a river of stars. The night-light was a black sun that somehow still glowed.
The other me was waiting on the bed, legs crossed, holding a single sheet of paper.
“You’re the last one,” he said. His voice was mine, but older. “The rest filed their non-existence weeks ago. They’re happier now. No more sandwiches. No more clocks.”
I sat down beside him. The mattress didn’t sink.
“What happens if I don’t file?” I asked.
He shrugged like it was normal. “Then you keep rolling. Forever. Conscious. Aware. The only employee who still shows up.”
I looked at the paper in his hands. It was blank except for my signature, already there, already dry.
Outside the window, somehow both my childhood window and the fourth-floor office window at once, the city kept breathing. Lights in perfect sync. Trams without tracks.
I took the paper, folded it once, and put it in my pocket next to the cigarettes I no longer needed.
And I walked out.
The elevator is still going down. I can hear it humming.
I haven’t decided yet whether I’ll get off on four… or keep riding until the doors open onto whatever comes after non-existence.
Either way, the report is filed.
See you at the 10 a.m. sync.
#entertainment
source
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