She felt for the lock in the dark; there it was, a few inches down. Now, the problem was the key. There was none, whatsoever. She looked up again, darkness seemed to dissolve in a way, and she could suddenly make out shapes: that of a corner in the far end, that of a window. She did not have the impression that her eyes were growing accustomed to dim light, no way. It was more like waking up after a sound sleep, when your eyelids slowly rise and at first you are lost and you know where you are just because you remember where you went off to bed the previous night. But hey, you know, sometimes dreams are so profound that they erase any sort of memory. Then, as you come round, you seem to catch the side of a painting hanging on the wall, and you get extremely anxious because you can't recall there was a painting on the wall. Or perhaps the side of the frame takes an unexpected physical form and you can't tell what it is but it scares the hell out of you. You gather your wits soon afterward. You breath deep and are relieved to find yourself in the usual atmosphere of your bedroom. Everything's fine again.
That's what happened to her. She recognized the corridor. She had been there many times before, when the day came to its end. Of course, back then it was just her imagination. It was real now. She had invented this place as a way to give her fears and frustrations some kind of actuality. A corridor, full of locked doors, meaning how stuck she was somewhere, unable to proceed. That was not a machination any more. Her body was there, in the middle of the long passage, at a door she could touch but still could not unlock. What might have seemed an interesting intellectual exercise had turned into a life-or-death experience. If she did not find a way to cross, she would starve to death in there. It was no longer a game. It was a fight for her life.