The Flat, the Corridor, the Waiting Room:

Locations in the Book and Their Symbolism

When I started writing Dreams Don’t Always End, I didn’t plan out the settings like a cartographer drawing a map. They emerged, fragment by fragment, as the story unfolded. But as I look back on it now, I see that many of the places in the book carry meaning far beyond their physical descriptions.

These weren’t just locations—they were emotional states. Symbols. Echoes of choices made, or unmade.

Three spaces in particular shaped the emotional tone of the book: the flat, the corridor, and the waiting room. Each of them holds its own weight. Each of them says something about time, memory, and the way we move—or don’t move—through life.

The Flat: A Holding Pattern

The flat in the book is based on a very real place. I lived there for eleven years. Eleven years in the same space, feeling like I was waiting for something to happen. For life to change. For a knock on the door. A signal. A moment that would flip the switch.

It never came. Because real life rarely works that way.

Looking back, I realise I was in a holding pattern. The space became a kind of cocoon—but not in a transformative way. It wasn’t healing. It wasn’t growth. It was pause. Stagnation disguised as stability.

In the book, the flat is stripped down. It’s quiet. Empty in a way that feels intentional. It isn’t messy, but it’s not alive either. That mirrors how I felt in those years—neither falling apart nor moving forward. Just existing. Waiting.

There’s a line in the book about “the silence you only hear when your life isn’t making any noise.” That came straight from the flat.

Of course, nothing really just happens. You have to take action. You have to move. You have to open the door and step into something unknown. But for a long time, I didn’t. And the flat became a symbol of that stillness.

It’s strange writing about it now. That flat has been renovated. Sold. Lived in by someone else. But its memory lingers—not because of its layout or décor, but because of what it represented: a chapter in which time passed, but little changed.

The Corridor: A Fictional Direction

The corridor in the book is fictional—but it might be the most emotionally real place I’ve written.

It curves endlessly. It’s quiet, too quiet. Sometimes it seems to lead somewhere. Other times, it feels like it doubles back on itself. It’s a place of disorientation. A metaphor for life when you’re not sure if you’re moving forward, backward, or just walking in circles.

I’ll likely reuse the corridor in future books because it works so well as a symbol of uncertain direction. We’ve all had moments—months, even years—when we’re just going through the motions. Working. Existing. Waiting for clarity. But the doors don’t open. The signs are blank. The lights flicker and hum, but nothing changes.

In many ways, the corridor reflects the internal state of the main character. He’s not in crisis, but he’s not at peace either. He’s suspended. The choices he made—or failed to make—echo through that corridor like footsteps in an empty hospital wing.

Corridors in dreams are often symbolic: transitions, thresholds, or states of confusion. For me, this corridor became a place where time lost its grip. A space where the character had to confront direction—or the lack of it.

It’s not an evil place. Just a quiet one. A place where decisions linger like shadows, just out of reach.

The Waiting Room (X-Ray Room): Between Lives

The X-ray waiting room in the book might be the most surreal of the three spaces, but it’s also the one I had the most fun with.

Inspired by photographs I’ve seen (particularly Nick Carver’s work), I imagined a long-forgotten medical waiting area—discoloured floors, buzzing overhead lights, chairs lined up like people no longer sitting in them. It’s the ultimate liminal space—neither here nor there, neither past nor future.

In the story, the character encounters different versions of himself in this space. They don’t always speak, but they carry the weight of possibility. One might represent who he could’ve become if he’d made a different choice. Another might be a version that never escaped the flat. Yet another might be someone he never even imagined being.

I like the idea that the waiting room acts as a kind of crossroads, or more accurately, a place between crossroads. A neutral ground where timelines brush against each other. A place where you can see the life you didn’t choose—but only through a glass, dimly.

I didn’t write this location to be spooky or dreamlike for the sake of it. It came from that very human feeling of wondering what might have been. What if you’d left earlier? Stayed longer? Said yes instead of no?

In many ways, the waiting room is a room of regret, but not one steeped in pain. It’s quiet. Reflective. Unsettling because it reminds us that our lives are made not only by what we do, but by what we don’t do.

Why These Spaces Matter

I could’ve written these scenes in more vibrant, active places—a cityscape, a café, a crowded street. But that would’ve told a different story.

These three locations—the flat, the corridor, and the waiting room—aren’t just backdrops. They’re emotional metaphors. They say things the character can’t. Or won’t.

• The flat speaks to inaction. The weight of waiting for life to change on its own.

• The corridor speaks to uncertainty. The feeling of motion without meaning.

• The waiting room speaks to reflection. To the multiple selves we all carry with us.

Together, they create a world that feels quiet on the surface but charged underneath. A world shaped not by events, but by what those spaces represent emotionally.

Final Thoughts

As I work on Books Two and Three, I know these themes—and even these spaces—will reappear. Not in a repetitive way, but in variations. The corridor may curve differently. The flat may become a different kind of room. The waiting room may reveal more doors.

Because these aren’t just places in a story. They’re part of how I experience life.

We all have a flat somewhere in our past. A place we lingered too long.
We all know what it’s like to walk a corridor with no clear destination.
And I think we’ve all visited a waiting room or two in our dreams—whether we remember them or not.

Thank you for stepping into these spaces with me.