The Department of Forgotten Time

Kim Hyeyoon tapped her employee badge against the scanner.

Beep.

A soft chime followed. Then a line of green text blinked to life across the small screen:

—ACCESS GRANTED: B13 – DEPARTMENT OF FORGOTTEN TIME—

Her brow furrowed. “B13?” she muttered aloud. “I work in Finance. Fourth floor.”

She leaned in, tapping the glass with her finger as if that might correct it. But before she could press the “cancel” button, the elevator doors slid open with a sigh, as if impatient. A current of cold air rushed out, not freezing, but unnatural, like the absence of temperature.

Hesitating for just a beat, Hyeyoon glanced behind her. The hallway was empty. The floor she'd just been on, HR Services, was deathly quiet, lights flickering like a lazy eye.

The elevator doors began to close. She instinctively stepped forward. They swallowed her whole.

The descent began.

Floor numbers blinked steadily on the screen:
3… 2… 1… G… B1… B2…

Then… nothing.

The numbers stopped.

Instead, the lights above dimmed to an amber hue. The soft instrumental music faded, replaced by a low, mechanical hum that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep within the walls, like the elevator had entered a space that wasn't part of the building at all.

Hyeyoon shifted uneasily, hugging her arms across her chest. Her reflection in the elevator’s mirrored surface looked slightly off, like it was lagging half a second behind her movement.

Then, a whisper of a sound—barely audible over the hum.
A tick.
Tick…
Tick…
Like a clock.
But not one she could see.

Ding.

The elevator jolted gently to a stop.

The doors opened.

She stepped out into a hallway blanketed in deep maroon carpet. The air was heavy, as if the corridor hadn't been disturbed in years. No buzzing lights. No footstep echoes. Just a thick silence, wrapped in velvet.

There were no windows. The walls were lined with old wood panels, slightly warped by time. At the far end, mounted like an award plaque, was a polished brass sign:

DEPARTMENT OF FORGOTTEN TIME
“Preserving what others cannot recall.”

Hyeyoon read it twice. Her lips parted, but no words came. She looked around for a camera, a prank crew, or a hidden HR staff member jumping out with a cake saying, “Happy one-year work anniversary!” But there was nothing. Only the humming quiet.

“Right,” she whispered, trying to ground herself. “Must be a prank. Or... a hazing ritual? Finance has been weirder lately.”

She glanced back toward the elevator. The doors were already closed. No buttons. No panel.

She was here now.

Drawing in a breath, she adjusted her ID lanyard, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the plaque.

Still half-convinced someone would pop out with balloons.

No one did.

Just the faint scent of old paper… and something faintly floral, like memory itself.

She stepped in.

Inside, the office looked like it hadn’t been updated since 1992 or possibly ever.

The air was thick with the scent of old paper and forgotten toner. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming with fatigue. Rows upon rows of filing cabinets stretched along both walls, each one slightly ajar, as if breathing. They gave off a low mechanical hum, not unlike a beehive. Alive, patient, and slightly menacing. Some drawers opened and closed on their own, without a single hand near them.