“Everything is always the same in the maze. It doesn’t. I think maybe it can’t.” The words came out shaky, starting and stopping, speeding up and slowing down, as their utterer rocked back and forth. It was almost as if the art and craft of language had been all but forgotten after long disuse.

“That can’t be true,” I said. “We’re talking, aren’t we?”

“That’s just it…the maze can’t change. Chip off a corner, make a mark on the floor, leave something behind, it goes away. The next time you look away, even to blink, it’s back to normal. I’ve tried. Oh, I’ve tried. Stare at the wall for an hour. Stare at the floor ’til the eyes water. It doesn’t matter. But we’re not the maze.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, the ugly prickle of revelation beginning to grow in my gut.

“We’re not the maze, we’re not the maze. Out there, things can’t change. In here?” A tap on the forehead. “Things can change. Break. Heal. Breathing is fine, since whatever we spit out goes right back to being what it was. Never hungry, because I was full when I got here, I think. I think, I think, I think.”

“So why, then, did you smash the door?” I cried. “The one thing it looks like the maze won’t regenerate?”

“Don’t you see?” The cry was plaintive. “It’s been so long, so long. So unchanging, so unchanging. It’s all broken, up here, all broken. I needed someone to fix it, since I can’t do that myself. So I couldn’t. I couldn’t let you leave.”

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