When Oizys passed through the door, it wasn't a hallway or a room that awaited her, but the void.

A pure silence, without echo.

A space that wasn’t truly a space.

She fell.

Slowly at first, like in a dream, then faster and faster. Her body floated, but the sensation of falling never left her. She didn’t scream, didn’t panic. There was nothing to cling to. Nothing to resist the fall. It was pure space, stripped of gravity, of logic, of direction.

Then suddenly, the ground was there.

Not a collision. Just... contact. As if the universe had decided the fall had lasted long enough.

Oizys stood up, dizzy.

Before her rose a spiral staircase, immense, twisted, coiling around an invisible axis. It seemed to float in the void, with no walls, no ceiling, no end.

Each step was made of black glass, etched with a word, a date, a memory.

She climbed the first step. Then another.

The climb was easy at first. Each step gave her a sense of progress. As if she were gaining something. She read the words beneath her feet:

“First sketchbook.”

“Ten thousand views.”

“First positive comment.”

“Productive sleepless night.”

“Published.”

A sweet shiver enveloped her. The dizziness of progress.

She climbed higher.

But after a few turns, a strange feeling settled in: everything was repeating.

The steps looked the same. Some bore nearly identical words. Others seemed to accuse her in silence:

“Hope too high.”

“Ignored promotion.”

“No response.”

“Too late.”

“Too early.”

She kept climbing.

She thought the top was near. That a threshold would be crossed. That a reward waited beyond.

But the spiral stretched on, and on, and on.

Her steps grew heavy. Her breath, short.

Her eyes froze on one particular step.

A date.

A project name.

Her first graphic novel, published online.

Her vision blurred.

She saw herself, months earlier. Sitting in front of her screen. Her heart pounding like a war drum.

She had given everything. The script, the drawings, the layout, the publishing.

She had made videos. Excerpts. Bonus illustrations. Scheduled posts. Shares. Hashtags. Collaborations.

She had believed the universe would see her effort, and reward it.

But nothing.

Not a word.

Not a like.

Not even an insult. Just the void. Indifference.

She had waited. Persisted. Doubled down on effort.

Then slowly, painfully, she had understood: there would be no automatic recognition.

No crown for endurance.

No summit—just endless steps, in a spiral folding in on itself.

The memory left a metallic taste in her mouth.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered.

And the voice returned, bare and sharp:

— Who told you it would be fair?

Who told you climbing was enough?

That every step had to bring you closer to something?

Oizys fell to her knees.

She had believed in a simple equation: effort + time = success.

And she had fought herself with every “no,” every silence.

She had taken her own pain as proof she wasn’t doing enough.

— You remained a prisoner of the idea of a straight line, said the voice more gently.

You want to climb. You want to “arrive.”

But sometimes… you must descend. Return. Turn. Or simply… stop.

She lifted her head.

In front of her, to her right, an invisible ramp led downward to a lower portion of the spiral.

Almost shameful, hidden.

She hadn’t noticed it while climbing.

— To go down would be to fail, she thought.

And yet… going up no longer led anywhere.

Each step was costing her. Each move looping.

The pain no longer elevated her. It wore her down.

She placed a foot on the first descending step.

Something opened.

The spiral gently vibrated. The steps darkened for a moment, then the environment lightened. She was no longer falling.

No longer climbing.

She was walking.

And in the descent… were details she had never seen.

Inscriptions.

Cracks filled with light.

Forgotten names.

Mistakes that had taught her.

Fleeting smiles.

Ideas she had left behind, thinking they were useless.

Each step downward didn’t take her further from herself.

On the contrary. It reconnected her.

And finally, at the very bottom, at the center of a perfect circle… a low, rounded door of matte copper waited.

Not a triumphant door.

A humble one. A simple exit.

Oizys stepped through it, carrying in her heart a fragment of truth:

— Life is not a staircase that leads straight to the top.

It is a winding path, a labyrinth sometimes unfair, sometimes radiant,

But always alive.