I don't remember checking out.
One moment, I was in the fire — the next, I was gasping awake on the lobby couch, soaked in cold sweat.
But no burns. No scars. No signs that Room 616 had ever existed.
The bellhop at the front desk didn't even look up.
I stood slowly, trembling. Every joint in my body ached.
Like I'd lived a hundred years in one night.
But my phone was back in my pocket.
Charged. Clean.
Except for one thing.
A new folder in my photos:
"Dreams"
I opened it.
Ten pictures.
All of me.
But not me now.
Each one was a version of me I'd seen inside Room 616.
Mira-2. Mira-1. The girl with no eyes. The one in flames. The one laughing in the corner of the closet.
And one labeled:
> You – Current Occupant
---
I deleted the folder.
It came back instantly.
I deleted it again.
It came back.
I turned off the phone.
And the screen stayed on.
Black background.
One white message:
> "WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?"
---
I ran.
Left the hotel behind.
Didn't look back.
Caught a cab. Took the train. Switched cities. Rented a motel three hours away.
The clerk smiled at me with soft eyes. Asked no questions.
Gave me a key with a little plastic fob.
I held my breath.
Room 103.
I almost cried from relief.
---
The motel room was bland. Old carpet. Peeling paint.
But it was real.
It was boring.
Which meant it was safe.
I curled up in bed, telling myself over and over:
> "It's over. It's over. It's over."
But at 3:16 AM, I woke up to laughter.
Not from the hallway.
From under the bed.
---
I froze.
No movement. No breath.
Just the softest giggle. Like a child playing hide and seek.
I leaned down.
And there it was.
A brass keycard.
Room 616.
The same one I burned.
And a new note tucked beside it, written in my own handwriting:
> "You left the door open."
---
I threw the card out the window.
But it was back on the pillow the next time I blinked.
And my phone buzzed again.
One new voicemail.
My own voice. Whispering:
> "You escaped.
But something came with you."
> "Now it's awake."
---
I ran to the mirror.
Looked deep.
This time, no second me. No flame. No distortion.
Just me.
Except…
My reflection blinked a second too late.
And smiled.
I didn't.
---
And then it spoke.
Mouth moving.
No sound.
But I could read the lips.
> "I stayed behind…
so you could leave."
> "Now it's your turn."
---
The mirror cracked.
Just slightly.
And a new message bloomed across the motel wall behind me. Not paint. Not ink.
Just shadows bending into shape.
> The Room Remembers.
Even when you don't.
Welcome back, Dreamer.