My short story for which I not yet have a name, because it is’t finished yet…

Hey beautiful people,

I’ve been working on this short short story for quite a while now and today’s prompt, prompted me to continue writing it… I was experiencing a little block. I did manage to write some, but I wanted to shee the first part… This story is based on Surinames folklore and tradition combined with a more collective cultural/spiritual believe… Feedback is welcome and if you’d like me to keep posting the rest…

I’ve always felt like a ghost among the living.
As a true medium, telepath, clairvoyant, and a bridge between worlds, I was able to sense the energetic imprint of unspoken thoughts and the weight of residual memories from a street corner to a stranger’s gaze.

Human life felt kind of ill fitting. That’s why I returned so often to The Liminalia, the sanctuary suspended between the pulse of the living world
and the silent expanse of the Before and After.
This was no ordinary hotel. It existed in the seam between dimensions, a waystation for spectral wanderers, gifted beings, and entities untethered from time. And it possessed a singular magic: The Liminalia presented itself uniquely to every soul who crossed its threshold. It wasn’t just a building; it was a reflection. To a Victorian era spirit, it might manifest as a gaslit mansion draped in velvet. To an elemental being, it could be a grove of crystalline trees under a nebula-strewn sky. Your deepest sense of "HOME”, your most resonant memory of sanctuary, that’s what the hotel became for you. It was safety sculpted from perception itself.

For me, stepping into The Liminalia was shedding a too-tight skin. Here, I wasn't an outsider hiding impossible gifts. Here, my abilities, replaying moments like holographic films from an object's energy, seeing the tapestry of someone's past flicker behind their eyes, were simply… understood. And
my rarest gift, the one I guarded fiercely from the living world? The ability to not just travel between dimensions, but to be a gateway, a living conduit to
the Unseen… here, it was my key. The Liminalia welcomed me not despite it, but because of it. It resonated with the part of me that belonged nowhere else.

The familiar chime of The Liminalia’s elevator dinged softly as I stepped inside. To me, it remained sleek and modern, a comforting slice of the living world’s logic refracted through the Unseen. Today, however, the usual thrum of activity was absent. The corridors felt hushed, the air holding its breath.
As the doors slid open on my designated floor, a simple notice materialized before me. Pinned to the elevator’s door, just a simple piece of A4 paper
that felt utterly right in the moment:
"Elevator Maintenance: 1 Hour. Apologies for the inconvenience.”

I shrugged. Necessary upkeep, especially here. These notices often came during potent celestial alignments…
a full moon, planetary alignment or an eclipse. The hotel recalibrated its thresholds. Routine, yet always a reminder of the universal laws beneath the illusion of earth and starlight.
My room awaited, a safespace created from my own essence. Here, it manifested as a blend of cozy study and serene retreat: deep armchairs,
shelves groaning under the weight of impossible knowledge, and a window that looked out onto… well, whatever soothed the soul that day. Today, it
shimmered with ****still thinking what I want it to look like****

The question lingered: how to spend this stay? Mingle in the Sabaku lounge , where conversations flowed in languages of light and thought? Or
lose myself in The Liminalia’s true marvel: its Library of Lost Whispers.
This grand library held texts on every superstition, ritual, and half remembered lore across countless realities. That was my peculiar joy.
Here, I learned the truth behind the crossed fingers and spilled salt of the living world. So many were charming fictions, harmless echoes of misunderstanding. I’d return to the living world with a secret smile, biting my tongue when someone fretted over a broken mirror or a black cat’s
path, knowing the real mechanics (or lack thereof) behind the fear. My own private, cosmic inside joke.

Settling in, I grounded myself. No matter how often I crossed the veil, the shift in energy demanded respect. The air here was thicker, richer, vibrating with potential and ancient echoes. It took conscious effort to let my human essence dissolve and allow my deeper senses to bloom. I checked the astral calendar…. A minor lunar convergence, explaining the elevator’s rest.
I Meditated until the last static cling of the living world faded. Paged through a fascinating book on Suriname’s Winti traditions, the pages humming with
preserved ancestral energy. Finally, I simply drifted, letting my essence expand into the comforting embrace of the Unseen

sabaku lounge is a reference to the vip lounge area in Surinam’s international airport