Omnipresent

He wakes alone. No doors. No windows. No escape. Only walls — pale, unbroken, endless. Time doesn't move here; it stretches, folds, repeats. The silence breathes with him, then against him, until he can no longer tell where it ends and he begins. Then, a voice. At first faint — a whisper, almost kind. Then firmer. Then relentless. It knows things he shouldn't remember, speaks in tones that sound almost like his own. Memories rise without warning, fragments slipping through the cracks: a childhood bruise that never healed, a hand withdrawn too soon, a love that faltered under the weight of expectation. One by one they return, sharper, heavier, until the room itself seems to pulse with them — the walls shifting, echoing his own mind turned inside out. There is no escape from what's inside. No distraction. No forgetting. The past, the present, and something beyond both coil together until they're indistinguishable. The voice asks questions he cannot answer — or refuses to. It accuses, confesses, laughs. Sometimes it sounds like mercy; sometimes it sounds like truth. Omnipresent is a psychological descent into the labyrinth of guilt, memory, and identity — a story of a man imprisoned not by circumstance but by consciousness itself. It is claustrophobic and intimate, an unflinching portrait of isolation, of the human mind when it has no one left to talk to but itself.