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The mirror-door labeled "Guilt" stood before Aryan like a sealed tomb. A whisper of wind — though no windows were open — coiled around his ears, carrying with it a girl’s voice: soft, sad, and soaked in betrayal.
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"You left me here... alone..."
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His trembling hand reached for the doorknob carved into the floating mirror shards. The moment his skin made contact, a freezing pulse surged up his arm. The air thickened. His breath fogged the air — but only his.
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He pushed the door open.
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---
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The space beyond wasn’t a room. It was a memory — warped and bleeding. Aryan stepped onto a black-and-white tiled floor that flickered like old film stock. Every few seconds, the environment shifted. The hallway of Hotel Miraya. His childhood bedroom. A hospital corridor. Room 13. Then again. And again.
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Each shift brought the same scream.
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A girl’s scream. Her.
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Aryan ran.
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No matter where he went, the scream followed. Sometimes close, sometimes distant, sometimes echoing as if it was trapped beneath glass. The air shimmered, and suddenly he was in the hotel hallway again. But now, everything was reversed — like looking in a mirror.
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He faced Room 13.
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The number on the door melted into something else: 1313.
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He opened it.
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Inside stood a younger version of himself, maybe ten years old. Crying. Frozen. Staring at a girl locked in, banging against the glass of a mirror — the same one now shattered.
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The younger Aryan didn’t move. Neither did the one watching.
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Until the girl turned.
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Her face half-burned, half-faded like a water-stained painting. Eyes hollow, voice shaking the walls:
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“You heard me scream. And still... you ran.”
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The walls collapsed. Screams surrounded him — not just hers, but dozens. Hundreds. Male, female, child, old. All trapped. All forgotten. Room 13 wasn’t just haunted. It was hungry.
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It fed on silence. On watchers.
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On people like him.
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---
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He fell to his knees, clutching his ears.
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“Make it stop!” Aryan screamed.
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A voice — not hers, not his — answered:
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“Then remember everything.”
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Suddenly, everything went quiet.
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He looked up.
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He was back in Room 13. But now, it looked untouched. Dustless. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened here.
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Except for one thing:
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On the bed lay a dusty, red journal.
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He opened it.
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The first page:
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"I was never supposed to live through that night. But I did. And so did the truth."
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His fingers trembled as he turned the page.
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To be continued...
Next chapter coming tomorrow.....
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