I awoke somewhere else. The floor was folded paper, corridors stretching endlessly, walls lined with napkins pinned like sacred texts. Each bore stains — cranberry blotches, gravy smears, grease halos — forming glyphs I could not read. The air was heavy, thick with judgment.

At the center stood a figure. Its cloak rustled with endless folds of napkins — some crisp and white, others translucent with oil, others torn and damp. They whispered as it moved, like paper prayers. Its hood was faceless, a void of serviettes layered into shadow.

The figure raised its hand. From the folds came three sandwiches.

One was perfectly familiar: a golden crust, turkey sliced thick, stuffing dense and herbal, cranberry shining like stained glass.

Another flickered violently: bread shifting between ciabatta, naan, brioche, sometimes nothing at all. Fillings dissolved into streams of numbers, reassembled into turkey, then vanished again. Cranberry became red error messages, stuffing corrupted files.

The last was barely there: invisible, intangible, only the faint smell of sage, only the crunch of phantom bread when bitten.

I hesitated, staring at the offerings. The corridors pulsed faintly, glyphs glowing as if urging me to decide.

I reached for the familiar one. The bread was warm, the turkey soft, the stuffing crumbled like memory. Cranberry cut sharp through it all, bright and holy. It was grounding, anchoring me in this strange place.

The glyphs on the napkins pulsed once, then faded.

Final Score: ★★★★☆