Carlos awoke in a room without end. Everything was white—the cold, polished floor, the walls that seemed to stretch infinitely upward. There were no windows, no doors, no visible exit. The white light, coming from no discernible source, illuminated everything around him, bathing him in an unwavering brightness. A hard bed, covered by a hospital sheet, and a small bathroom in one corner were his only companions.

  The first few minutes passed in confusion. He thought it must have been an accident, that someone would find him soon, that he would hear a sound—anything to indicate the presence of others. But the silence was absolute, profound. The stillness, unbroken. He moved toward the walls, searching for an edge, a crack, something that might suggest a way out, but his hands found only an endless, smooth surface, returning nothing but an implacable cold.

  Hours stretched into eternity. His mind began to fracture under the weight of the void. He thought of his life, his family, all the moments that might be lost in this prison. He sat on the bed, then lay down, trying to steady his breathing, but his thoughts spiraled out of control. He started whispering aloud, his own voice echoing endlessly in the empty space.

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  Time lost meaning. He slept only when exhaustion claimed him, but every awakening was the same as the last—same position, same silence. The thought that he might never leave lodged itself deep in his chest, a dagger turning slowly, reminding him that he was trapped in an infinite cell. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he began scratching at the walls, screaming until his voice broke into a hoarse lament.

  One night—if the concept of night still held any meaning—he felt a presence, a shift in the air. He looked around, but the room remained unchanged. Yet something inside him shattered. He could no longer endure the thought of this eternal whiteness, of this place without time, without purpose. In desperation, he struck the bed, the floor—anything to prove that he was still alive, that his senses hadn’t abandoned him. His throat burned, and exhaustion brought him to his knees.

  And then, out of nowhere, everything vanished.

  He woke to the tight embrace of a straitjacket and the distant murmur of voices. When he opened his eyes, he was in a different bed, inside a psychiatric hospital cell. Doctors and nurses observed him with concern. He tried to move, to speak, but his body was weak. In frantic whispers, he spoke of the white room, the endless walls, the echo of his own voice.

  The doctors tried to calm him, but for Carlos, the white room was still there, burned into his mind.