the Gate at the Edge of Everywhere

The structure wasn’t a house. It was a terminal.

Every civilization once used these stone loops to cross galaxies in seconds, but most had collapsed into dust. This one still hummed faintly, its inner ring glowing like distant starlight. The gatekeeper stood beside it, wrapped in weather-stained robes threaded with fiber-optic veins. When the traveler approached, the figure lifted a hand and asked a single question:

“Which universe are you returning to?”

The traveler hesitated. He didn’t remember leaving one.

“Take a number,” said the gatekeeper, handing the traveler a seashell.

“But I’m the only one here.”

“Yes, but the line is very long in the future.”

Inside the tiny shack were shelves labeled Yesterday, Maybe, Sideways, and Places That Don’t Exist Yet. The stone loop outside shimmered with destinations like a menu board. A child ran through and turned briefly into a flock of birds before reappearing again, giggling.

“First time?” asked the gatekeeper kindly. “Most people choose somewhere sensible. But if you’d like to visit a Tuesday that hasn’t happened, that’s in Aisle Three.”

The traveler thought it was a ruin until the figure moved.

The gatekeeper lived in the shack beside the portal, tending a lantern that never went out. They explained that the arch was made from abandoned possibilities — every road not taken, every decision undone. Step through, they said, and you would arrive in a life you almost lived.

“But you must not stay long.”

“Why?”

“Because if you like it too much,” the keeper whispered, “you’ll forget which world was yours.”