I returned to the corridor. The napkins had yellowed. Their edges curled inward, brittle with time. The stains had faded — cranberry blotches now pale pink, gravy smears like dried ink, grease halos barely visible. The glyphs no longer pulsed. They waited.

The figure stood where it always had. Its cloak was thinner now. The napkins frayed, some torn, some damp and clinging to its hood. It did not raise its hand. It simply looked at me — or seemed to — and from the folds came the final offering.

There was no sandwich. Only the faint smell of sage. Only the crunch of phantom bread when I bit down.

I closed my eyes. There was warmth, then cold. There was memory, then absence. There was nothing to chew, but something passed through me — a taste, a sound, a feeling.

I stood in silence. The corridor did not pulse. The glyphs did not rearrange. The figure did not move.

But something had shifted. The air was lighter. The napkins on the walls began to curl upward, as if catching a breeze. Somewhere far away, I thought I heard birdsong.

I turned to leave. The corridor did not stop me. The sandwich was not there. And neither was I.

Final Score: ☆☆☆☆☆