The lights flicked back on.
But they weren't the same.
Too dim. Too yellow. Like sunlight filtered through disease.
The shadows in the corners moved when I wasn't looking directly at them. Not danced. Not shifted. Moved. Like they had somewhere to be, and it wasn't where I wanted them.
The closet door was still shut.
But I swear, I could hear someone weeping softly from inside.
I approached slowly, hand trembling, knuckles white as I reached out. But I didn't open it.
Not yet.
I turned instead to the desk, where the open book still sat.
It wasn't mine.
It didn't have a title. Just a cracked leather cover, old and reeking of mildew.
Inside was a journal entry.
Written in my handwriting.
---
> "Second night. The dreams are no longer mine.
I don't remember checking in.
I only remember the fire.
Every time I fall asleep, I see her. My sister.
The room said I could bring her back.
I just have to forget I ever left."
---
I stumbled back, heart hammering. My hands shook.
I hadn't written that.
I had a sister — had — but she died when I was seventeen. A fire.
I don't talk about it. Not even in my blog.
There's no way the hotel could've known.
No way anyone could've known.
I picked up the journal again.
The pages flipped on their own, like caught in a wind I couldn't feel.
Words burned themselves into the next blank page, one letter at a time.
> "Mira Carter. You are now Dreamer #74.
Room 616 remembers you.
Please lie down and sleep."
---
I dropped the book.
The closet creaked.
And then, something whispered behind me:
"Why did you let her burn?"
I spun.
Empty room.
No voice. No speaker. No breath.
But the mirror—
The mirror now showed a different version of the room.
The bed was on fire.
My sister was in it.
She was screaming, reaching out, mouth open in agony—but she wasn't burning. The room around her was. Sheets turning to ash. Curtains blackening. Her eyes met mine.
And she said the one word I feared most:
"You."
---
I blinked. The mirror returned to normal. No flames. Just my pale reflection.
But something had changed.
I looked… tired.
Older.
There were cracks running down my face. Faint, like porcelain fractured from within.
They weren't there before.
My phone vibrated again.
This time, it wasn't a message.
It was a video. Already playing.
I lifted it and watched:
The screen showed me. Right now.
Standing in the hotel room.
But behind me…
There was someone else.
Not just in the mirror.
Right behind me.
I turned so fast I nearly fell.
Nothing.
But my phone kept playing. In the video, the figure stepped forward.
Its skin was loose and gray. Black veins moved like worms under it. Its face was blurred, like the camera couldn't capture it. Or didn't want to.
It whispered through the speaker:
> "You've already slept once. You just don't remember waking up."
---
The screen went black.
And then something new appeared, typed like a system alert:
> 🔒 DAY 1 COMPLETE
Welcome to the Dreaming Floor.
You cannot leave until you remember what you forgot.
Do Not Disturb the room's memory.
It will disturb you back.
---
I didn't sleep that night.
But I must have.
Because when I opened my eyes again…
I was no longer alone in the bed.
Something warm lay next to me. Breathing.
Its fingers brushing my wrist.
And in the mirror?
Two versions of me were sleeping.
One had no eyes.
The other was smiling in her sleep.