It's rather large, with what seems to be an infinite amount of blank doors, stairs and floors up on top of each other with no end, a forever M.C. Escher. I can't make out the top of this winding staircase - it climbs up and up. At some point, it disappears into the third vanishing point above.

The house is made of ebony and mahogany. Rich wood, but everything is dark, ominous. There is no artificial illumination and only open windows shed some sort of pale white moonlight. When I look through the window all I can see is a moon so round and flat against a black sky, it appears fake, as if a child's sticker. The place seems to have been totally abandoned for a long time. I feel at a loss like I had been abandoned as well and I tremble in fear.

I'm simply in a strange house, I say to myself. I try to recall when I came across this house, how or why I had entered or who exactly I am, but nothing comes to mind. My mind is empty like this place. I end up wandering slowly through the floors for a long time - how long I'm not sure. I dare not speak, afraid someone would hear me. Instead, my footsteps and the pounding of my heart echoes against every wooden surface like gurgling thunder. I keep my breath shallow but in the silence I can even hear that.

Though every time I brace myself and cower in case something is awaiting me on the other side, whenever I open a door, it opens into a blank room. Its inhabitants must have moved out long ago. There is even a thick layer of dust on the floor. Whenever I take a step, my feet leave black marks against the dust I displaced. Only the moon gazes in, ever indifferent. No matter which angle or which room, I find the moon outside like a ghost child.

Once I've finished with the first floor I move up to the second. The first floor is composed of all the same rooms, same dimensions and design. All are empty. On the second, they are empty as well. In the very last room however there's a bag of trash that sits in the middle.

This bag of trash is as ordinary as possible. Sitting as casually as possible. Right dead center of the room. A clear bag, all its contents visible. Inside seems to be crumpled paper, empty take out boxes, tissue, flyers, a condom wrapper or two. I wonder about its significance but I absentmindedly seem to take out the garbage and set it down in the hall. I didn't think too much about it.

On the third floor, there's the same situation, except instead of one room with trash, there are two. Two bags of trash. This confuses me for a moment, who on earth would discard two bags of trash in the middle of two separate rooms? Is there no garbage disposal service here? For a while I am standing there, preoccupied with the thought of these bags at my feet and fail to notice a cell phone in each. When I do see them, I dig through the loose pieces of paper and wrappers and pull them out. They look perfectly fine, new in fact, gleaming and shining in the moonlight. One is black and the other, white. I compare them and find them to be the same touchscreen models. Why had they been thrown out? Perhaps it had been a mistake? Surely, it would fetch a great deal of money. I turn them on. And they come to life, blinking and blazing with newfound energy. Nothing seems to deter their elated release from sleep. As if they had been waiting hundreds of years for this moment. But hardly would they realize their resurrection is to such a mundane world.

They work fine, and don't seem to have any saved contacts or prior information. There aren't any SIM cards in them so they are of no immediate use. Looking around, I find no one nearby - not surprisingly - so I pocket them. One man's trash is another's treasure.

These two bags I deposit at the stairs so it would be easier for whoever would take out the trash. Maybe it might be me in the end, but that would be if I head back downstairs. For now, I would be climbing up higher.

Again on the third floor, likewise, there are three bags of trash, but no cell phones or anything of value from what I can see. In a robotic fashion, I somehow take it on myself to make sure to collect all the garbage and deposit them at the stairs on each level. No one else is going to do it, I had reasoned. It wasn't until what might have been the tenth or eleventh floor - by which my body had grown sore, my legs trembling from walking - that I find something I think I recognize. I couldn't be sure, but there's something at the back of my mind, a faint nudge.

It's nothing intrinsically important, just a pair of glasses, large black plastic frames. In a second bag, there's a Nirvana poster, crumpled and soiled by some liquid stain. And next to a third, a single coffee bean sits on the floor. I pick them up wordlessly and put them in one of my pockets. Every motion is almost automatic, my body moving on its own accord, without consulting my mind. Not that my mind has anything to say.

After I have put them in my pocket, I straighten and collect the remaining trash bags and put them next to the stairs. Then suddenly I realize that each clear plastic bag is getting more opaque with each floor. By now, they are beyond translucent and getting to become white in colour. Strange.

Now that I think about it, each floor had taken longer and longer, because I began to look through each bag rather than through the sides. There were some old photos of nothing in particular and hastily scribbled memo notes, paperwork, an essay of some sort, empty bottles, cotton swabs, chocolate bar wrappers, dried up pack of wet napkins, movie tickets, old earbuds, a rag cloth, a rotting banana peel, chopsticks, bandaids, a gluestick, even yellowed newspaper dated 2009. Average things that someone might throw out.

Such went on for a long time. I don't feel the need for food or water, but I rest every few floors, inspecting and cleaning out the garbage, then sitting down on the steps and catching my breath. There's more and more garbage to throw out and it becomes more and more tedious. But I can't complain. It's not right to leave garbage bags in the middle of a room, nor is it like anyone else would be able to clear it out.

Every window I pass by I see the moon, no stars, nothing else. Soon, I don't really recall anything that had been a prequel this. It exists as a single instant, isolated and autonomous, with its own rules and flow, or lack of flow. It feels like I had been here my whole life, blocked off, cleaning out each room which by now is full of garbage bags.

I lose track of which floor I am. And there's no record of time. My movements become natural and even inspecting the garbage bags seems pointless now. The process seems to reverse. The more I cleaned, the more garbage I was putting into the subsequent floors.

I've all but given up on examining the contents of each bag for clues - anything that might tell me what I'm doing or where I am - when I reach the top of the building. It catches me off guard because the stairwell and the architecture never showed any sign of stopping. I simply followed the stairs that were steeply angled up. But now, abruptly above me is the ceiling and a single swing hatch, with nowhere else to go. I could've easily hit my head on it if I had been going any faster.

The trap door is black, looking like a solid piece of metal, just large enough for a single person to pass. There's a latch, crossed by a great silver bar. I presume I've reached the roof. It must have been hundreds of floors, and days by now, but here I am, arrived at the end, without anywhere else to go. I feel at once disappointed and relieved.

I knock on the door first. It replies with a deep hollow rattling echo typical of something like a metal box I'd imagine. Of course, it's probably a false impression. There has to be something on the other side, or it wouldn't be here in the first place. But no one answers the door.

After a few minutes of careful listening, I pull off the silver bar with a grunt, and set it on the steps. It isn't that heavy but a grunt seemed necessary if it's only to break the silence.

Now that I have clear access to the latch, with a deliberate push, it unlocks and unhinges, swinging up easily. I hold it above my head.

I am greeted with a pungent aroma of herbs, like an old woman's cooking some holistic medicinal concoction. Furthermore, the air significantly changes, and a thick soup of heat drips into the building and envelopes me as I climb up. There's nothing much I could see but a blinding slit of white light. I hesitate as the white light triggers an inexplicable jolt of fear through my body. I take a deep breath and proceed.

I emerge onto some sort of large grassy field. A huge clearing it seems, with an afternoon sun beaming overhead. I stretch and yawn and am happy for the change. It's been too long stuck in the darkness. Yet, I can't fathom why it had been night time inside. The moon must have been a fabricated projection. Unless the sun and the field here are artificial as well. I can no longer tell what is artificial.

Nevertheless, the sky above is painted the most remarkable shade of baby blue like a wet t-shirt and cirrus clouds that remind me of wrinkles. A nice breeze billows against me and I close my eyes welcoming this sensation. The field is so vast, I begin to feel like a tiny creature even with my eyes closed. The grass is long and up to my knees. It gently tickles my legs through my jeans like a purring cat.

I see a large hill in the middle of the field, raised like a mother's baby bump. As I make the trek there, I do so swinging my arms and legs in exaggerated motions to get some exercise. Every joint and muscle is stiff and tight. Above, a chorus of birds sweeps over. A majestic sight. How can such a place exist on top of the building? It clearly makes no sense, yet I ask no questions. Good things don't need answers, I conclude.

The uphill slope is tiring but I make it to the top eventually and find no one there. Oddly, I had been expecting to meet someone. Who, I'm not sure, but the vague impression leaves a hole in the air, like a patch of grass that had been flattened by someone lying down. But of course, there are no flattened patches of grass here.

From the top of the hill looking down I can see tree tops in the distance, like a ring made of little green stones for an ancient ritual. Once again, it is curiously familiar, a tiny teasing nudge.

I want to sit down but there are a few things in my pocket. I take them out. Black framed glasses, cell phones, a folded Nirvana poster and a coffee bean. I wonder how they had gotten there.

Just as I'm about to sit, someone speaks up behind me.

"It's a nice hill. Round, high with a good vista. Soft grass. Great summer weather, all year round. You could stay here forever, wouldn't you say?"

I turn around and there's a boy, sixteen or seventeen maybe, plain face, glasses, hair sideswept covering his forehead. He's wearing a button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up and jeans. He has the air of someone serious about math but also as if he had walked out of some old educational film that's still used every year in classrooms. I wonder who he is. He looks familiar.

"You like summer?" I say, still trying to figure out what he's doing here. My voice sounds eerily quiet, like shouting into a vacuum.

"I like winter more. It's a little too hot sometimes," he says.

"So what are you doing here?"

"Well, look here, I don't have a lot of time, but I've got a good deal for you."

"A deal?" I look around. On top of a hill in the middle of a clearing - not exactly the best place for business transactions.

"You probably found a bunch of things. They belong to me, so I'd appreciate it if you return them to me."

"It's yours?" I look down at my hands. "What do you need a coffee bean for?"

"Yeah. It's quite important. I'll give you something that belongs to you in return."

"What might that be?"

He raises up a black suit, shirt and tie in his hands. A whole set. "This isn't exactly cheap but I know it belongs to you. Brooks Brothers. Secondhand but a good, famous brand as far as I know. So I'm here to do an exchange with you."

"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

He scowls. "Look, you clearly have no clue what you're doing, I'm the only person who has the right idea here, so you best follow along."

"Well, I really don't have a need for these things and have no problem giving it to you. But tell me more about this suit. What do you know about me?"

"There's not much to know. I don't really know but you might have left this suit somewhere. I found it and happened to bring it to you - yes, I know you'd be here, can we leave it at something simple like that? You probably work some nine to five job, and do some menial labour, but everyone needs a suit these days. So here." He thrusts the suit at me, which is on a hanger.

I take it and give him his things.

"Well that wasn't too hard was it?"

I say nothing in retort and hold the hanger with one hand.

"Put it on, I think it will suit you." He smiles, a little awkwardly. "Like the pun?"

"How bout you tell me where the nearest town is."

"Town? Nothing miles around."

"How did you get here then?"

"I wonder..." he muses, "something about a gate."

"A gate?"

"You won't need that, because you have a job to return to. So put on your suit like a good old man and get packing." He chuckles, enjoying his own jest.

"I don't want to put on the suit without a mirror."

"Okay well, let's see," the boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. He flips around the screen and turns on the camera. "Just look here."

"I guess that works. Thank you," I say and look at the screen. And at once I stop and gape.

For a long time, I don't recognize who it is.

It appears to me like a surreal painting on a splatter of pixels. Perhaps Magritte's "The Son of Man". The screen reflects the sky above with a half rectangle of blue. The rest of it a little too dark to see clearly. But it's without a doubt that I see a balding middle aged man staring back at me. I squint and change my angle but he moves to reciprocate. I lift a hand and he lifts the mirrored one. Wrinkles adorn every inch of his face and his eyes are sunken, shadows deep. The skin is dry and cracked, mouth creased into a bitter frown. I have no ability to form any coherent utterance to tell the boy to quit playing games. Instead, I run my hand over my face. But to my utter dismay, my fingers trace over scaly, flaking skin. Uneven and scored like crater-wrecked rock.

I try to recall what had happened, but nothing comes to mind. Why am I so surprised? Suddenly, blood drains from my face and I lose all grip of reality. The world spins and careens, and a wave of nausea rolls over me. I have no recollection of how I had gotten here, yet I am so sure there had once been an alternate truth. Am I not supposed to look like this? Could I recall my age? Or my name for that matter?

"What's the matter, old man?"

"Who are you?"

He begins to walk away. "You're one strange man."

"What's your name?" I shout after him.

But he doesn't reply.

Soon at the bottom of the hill when he is out of view, he disappears from sight like an image that has expired.