You turn yourself around. The distant end of the corridor looms rather, but you ignore that hollow of darkness, instead focusing on the structure of the building. A trap-door, but where? It could be anywhere in this place, this haunting house of everything, filled with senseless nothings.
The Hatter is gone, but you still search for him. In vain. As you turn, you stare back at the building’s structure, searching the movement of the walls.
Moving walls? You blink, but, yes, they are still moving, rapidly melting and changing their colours as you watch, psychadaelia warping your perception.
“It’s just another trick,” you tell yourself, asserting authority over the mirage.
And so you continue to stare at the wall.
Eventually, its madness fades away, relieving you of the growing headache that comes from looking at swirling patterns for too long. In place of the mad colours lies a gleaming bronze ‘H’, an augment of the wall.
Is this another test? you wonder to yourself, beginning to feel like a stuck record. No answer makes itself clear in your mind, instead filling you with the memories of the transpired events.
“Did that…really happen?” you ask, to which a self-conjured image of the Hatter replies:
“Are you a mirage?”
Even so, his image triggers some distant memories, recent, yet so far away in your cortex. For some reason, the vision of a music room comes to mind. You turn to your side, and there it is: a place, that room, which is pouring out beautiful, tender music; even the music itself triggers new memories, reminding you that you have been in this hallway before. It’s your music room, where the ‘H’ was directing you since the beginning.
“Thank you, Lord Hattington,” you whisper as you venture inside.