The corridor stretched endlessly before him. The walls were smooth, unadorned, made of the same white stone as the ring on his finger and the piece in his pocket. The light at the end pulsed with a steady rhythm, a heartbeat that matched his own. Each step he took brought him closer, but the distance seemed to stretch and contract, playing tricks on his perception.
He walked for what felt like hours. Or minutes. The corridor was timeless, a space outside the normal flow of existence. The only constant was the pulsing light and the warmth in his chest.
Then the corridor began to change.
The white stone walls shimmered, and images appeared on their surfaces. Memories. Not his own, not yet, but the memories of those who had come before. He saw faces, hundreds of them, each one different, yet each one somehow familiar. They looked at him with eyes that held recognition, hope, and sorrow.
"You're here," a voice whispered. "You finally came."
