Author: James Gonda

The walls in the room curve inward like the inside of a shell, smooth and pale.

When he thinks of sitting a chair rises from the floor and shapes itself to his back.

Light fills the space evenly.

His thoughts arrange themselves without effort.

He feels panic build and begins counting breaths as he was taught during a workplace wellness seminar. Then his breathing settles on its own.

The memory of the road, the flash of white, the sudden lift, sits at a distance, intact and sealed.

When the first alien appears, it doesn’t enter so much as assemble. One moment the air is empty, the next it contains a tall, jointed shape, its surface matte and softly faceted. “Are you experiencing distress?” it asks. The voice arrives already translated.

“No,” he says, almost laughing.

“This aligns with expectations. I am Talar. I will accompany you during this phase.”

Phase means sequence and sequence suggests an ending. He finds this comforting.

Talar asks questions, one at a time.

What work does he perform?

He explains accounting. His days are filled with correcting other peoples’ errors.

What is his domestic arrangement?

He says he lives alone.

Talar asks him to describe a typical morning.

He talks about scrolling through his phone at breakfast, rereading an email from his supervisor that contains no actionable information. As he speaks, he notices the tightness he usually feels in his chest when he thinks about these things does not appear.

He finishes.

The air shifts and a second alien forms.

“This phase is complete,” the second alien tells Talar. “Prepare him for return.”

Return. “Return where?” he asks (though he already knows).

“To the location of your extraction.” Talar says.

His mouth moves before he can articulate the thought. “But . . . I don’t want to go back.” He stands, aware again of how gently the room holds him. “I know I’ve been taken. But here—.” He gestures, helplessly, at the walls, to the light. “Here, everything feels right.”

Talar watches him closely. “You are experiencing relief?”

“Yes!” he says. “And usefulness.”

The second alien steps closer. “Purpose is not an offered condition.”

“Maybe not deliberately,” he says. “But it’s here.” Then: “Let me stay. Maybe I can help.”

The second alien’s reply is immediate. “Your request is a result of this environment—
specimens mistake containment for meaning.”

Specimens. The word lands heavy. “I’m not a lab rat,” he points out.

“This phase was designed to minimize harm upon reintegration,” Talar says.

He laughs. “You think this ‘phase’ will make it easier to send me back?”

“Yes,” the second alien says. “It is proven to be effective.”

He looks at Talar. “What I’m feeling is real.”

“Yes,” Talar says. “But it is not validation you belong here.”

He thinks of his last performance review when they told him he was “valued” and “on track,” phrases recited from a script while his real concerns went unaddressed. “Earth is full of worse illusions,” he says. “At least this one is honest.”

The room opens and images pass through him. Other humans. Same refrain. Let me stay.

“You are one of many,” the second alien says.

“You knew I’d ask,” he says.

The second alien nods. “Before you did.”

The light begins to withdraw.

“You will retain very little of this experience,” Talar says. “Only impressions.”

Back on Earth, he wakes up in the same place from where he was taken, no time missing.

A faint discontent simmers inside him.

Later—days and weeks—he compares every room to one he cannot quite remember.